A  YAN  ICE 

IN  THE 

TR.ENCHE5 


R.DERBY  HOLMES 


A   YANKEE  IN  THE  TRENCHES 


•f^SSSL-: 


CORPORAL   HOLMES   IN   THE   UNIFORM   OF   THE   22nD    LONDON 
BATTALION,    QUEEN's   ROYAL   WEST   SURREY   REGIMENT, 

H.  M.  IMPERIAL  ARMY.     Frontispiece. 


^A  YANKEE 
IN  THE  TRENCHES 


BY 


R.  DERBY  HOLMES 

corporal  or  the  22d  london  battalion  of  the 
queen's  royal  west  surrey  regiment 


ILLUSTRATED  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 


non-referT 


SWVAD-a3S 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1918 


^ 


x\>^ 


Copyright,  1918, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Compant. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published,  January,  1918 
Reprinted,  January,  1918   (four  times) 


NoTtoootj  ^Tcss 

Set  up  and  electrotyped  by  J.  S.  Gushing  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 

Presswork  by  S.  J.  Parkhill  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


30e&icatCciu 

To  Marion  A.  Puttee,  Southall,  Middle- 
sex, England,  I  Dedicate  This  Book  as  a 
Token  of  Appreciation  for  All  the  Loving 
Thoughts  and  Deeds  Bestowed  upon  Me 
WHEN  I  Was  a  Stranger  in  a  Strange  Land 


FOREWORD 

T  HAVE  tried  as  an  American  in  writing 
this  book  to  give  the  public  a  complete 
view  of  the  trenches  and  life  on  the  Western 
Front  as  it  appeared  to  me,  and  also  my  im- 
pression of  conditions  and  men  as  I  found 
them.  It  has  been  a  pleasure  to  write  it, 
and  now  that  I  have  finished  I  am  genuinely 
sorry  that  I  cannot  go  further.  On  the  lec- 
ture tour  I  find  that  people  ask  me  questions, 
and  I  have  tried  in  this  book  to  give  in  detail 
many  things  about  the  quieter  side  of  war 
that  to  an  audience  would  seem  too  tame. 
I  feel  that  the  public  want  to  know  how  the 
soldiers  live  when  not  in  the  trenches,  for  all 
the  time  out  there  is  not  spent  in  killing  and 
carnage.  As  in  the  case  of  all  men  in  the 
trenches,  I  heard  things  and  stories  that  es- 
pecially impressed  me,  so  I  have  written  them 
as  hearsay,  not  taking  to  myself  credit  as  their 
originator.  I  trust  that  the  reader  will  find 
as  much  joy  in  the  cockney  character  as  I  did 


viii  FOREWORD 

and  which  I  have  tried  to  show  the  public; 
let  me  say  now  that  no  finer  body  of  men 
than  those  Bermondsey  boys  of  my  battalion 
could  be  found. 

I  think  it  fair  to  say  that  in  compiling  the 
trench  terms  at  the  end  of  this  book  I  have 
not  copied  any  war  book,  but  I  have  given 
in  each  case  my  own  version  of  the  words, 
though  I  will  confess  that  the  idea  and  neces- 
sity of  having  such  a  list  sprang  from  reading 
Sergeant  Empey's  "Over  the  Top."  It  would 
be  impossible  to  write  a  book  that  the  people 
would  understand  without  the  aid  of  such  a 
glossary. 

It  is  my  sincere  wish  that  after  reading  this 
book  the  reader  may  have  a  clearer  conception 
of  what  this  great  world  war  means  and  what 
our  soldiers  are  contending  with,  and  that  it 
may  awaken  the  American  people  to  the  danger 
of  Prussianism  so  that  when  in  the  future  there 
is  a  call  for  funds  for  Liberty  Loans,  Red 
Cross  work,  or  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  there  will  be  no 
slacking,  for  they  form  the  real  triangular 
sign  to  a  successful  termination  of  this  terrible 
conflict.  R.  Derby  Holmes. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

Foreword 

I    Joining  the  British  Aemy 
II     Going  In 

III  A  Trench  Raid 

IV  A  Few  Days'  Rest  in  Billets 
V    Feeding  the  Toivimies 

VI  Hiking  to  Vimy  Ridge 

VII  Fascination  of  Patrol  Work  . 

VIII  On  the  Go  .... 

IX  First  Sight  of  the  Tanks 

X  Following  the  Tanks  into  Battle 

XI  Prisoners 

XII  I  Become  a  Bomber  . 

XIII  Back  on  the  Somme  Again 

XIV  The  Last  Time  Over  the  Top 
XV  Bits  of  Blighty 

XVI    Suggestions  for  "  Sammy  " 
Glossary  of  Ae]my  Slang 


PAGE 

vii 

1 

16 

28 

38 

51 

65 

77 

95 

114 

127 

137 

145 

166 

179 

189 

200 

209 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Corporal  Holmes  in  the  Uniform  of  the  22nd  London 
Battalion,  Queen's  Royal  West  Surrey  Regiment, 
H.  M.  Imperial  Army    ....        Frontispiece 


Reduced  Facsimile  of  Discharge  Certificate  of  Char 
acter      


A  Heavy  Howitzer,  Under  Camouflage 
Over  the  Top  on  a  Raid    . 
Cooking  Under  Difficulties 
Head-on  View  of  a  British  Tank 


4 

28 

34 

56 

124 


Corporal  Holmes  with  Staff  Nurse  and  Another  Pa- 
tient, at  Fulham  Military  Hospital,  London,  S.W.     190 

Corporal  Holmes  with  Company  Office  Force,  at 
Winchester,  England,  a  Week  Prior  to  Discharge     194 


A  YANKEE  IN  THE 
TRENCHES 

CHAPTER  I 

Joining  the  British  Army 

/^NCE,  on  the  Somme  in  the  fall  of  1916, 
^-^  when  I  had  been  over  the  top  and  was 
being  carried  back  somewhat  disfigured  but 
still  in  the  ring,  a  cockney  stretcher  bearer  shot 
this  question  at  me  : 

"Hi  sye,  Yank.  Wot  th'  bloody  'ell  are 
you  in  this  bloomin'  row  for?  Ayen't  there 
no  trouble  t'  'ome?" 

And  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  answer. 
After  more  than  a  year  in  the  British  service 
I  could  not,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  say 
exactly  why  I  was  there. 

To  be  perfectly  frank  with  myself  and  with 
the  reader  I  had  no  very  lofty  motives  when 


2      JOINING  THE   BRITISH  ARMY 

I  took  the  King's  shilling.  When  the  great 
war  broke  out,  I  was  mildly  sympathetic  with 
England,  and  mighty  sorry  in  an  indefinite 
way  for  France  and  Belgium;  but  my  sym- 
pathies were  not  strong  enough  in  any  direc- 
tion to  get  me  into  uniform  with  a  chance  of 
being  killed.  Nor,  at  first,  was  I  able  to  work 
up  any  compelling  hate  for  Germany.  The 
abstract  idea  of  democracy  did  not  figure  in 
my  calculations  at  all. 

However,  as  the  war  went  on,  it  became  ap- 
parent to  me,  as  I  suppose  it  must  have  to 
everybody,  that  the  world  was  going  through 
one  of  its  epochal  upheavals ;  and  I  figured 
that  with  so  much  history  in  the  making,  any 
unattached  young  man  would  be  missing  it  if 
he  did  not  take  a  part  in  the  big  game. 

I  had  the  fondness  for  adventure  usual  in 
young  men.  I  liked  to  see  the  wheels  go  round. 
And  so  it  happened  that,  when  the  war  was 
about  a  year  and  a  half  old,  I  decided  to  get  in 
before  it  was  too  late. 

On  second  thought  I  won't  say  that  it  was 
purely  love  for  adventure  that  took  me  across. 
There  may  have  been  in  the  back  of  my  head 


JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY      3 

a  sneaking  extra  fondness  for  France,  perhaps 
instinctive,  for  I  was  born  in  Paris,  although 
my  parents  were  American  and  I  was  brought 
to  Boston  as  a  baby  and  have  Hved  here  since. 

Whatever  my  motives  for  joining  the 
British  army,  they  didn't  have  time  to  crystal- 
lize until  I  had  been  wounded  and  sent  to 
Blighty,  which  is  trench  slang  for  England. 
While  recuperating  in  one  of  the  pleasant 
places  of  the  English  country-side,  I  had  time 
to  acquire  a  perspective  and  to  discover  that  I 
had  been  fighting  for  democracy  and  the 
future  safety  of  the  world.  I  think  that  my 
experience  in  this  respect  i  is  like  that  of  most 
of  the  young  Americans  who  have  volunteered 
for  service  under  a  foreign  flag. 

I  decided  to  get  into  the  big  war  game  early 
in  1916.  My  first  thought  was  to  go  into  the 
ambulance  service,  as  I  knew  several  men  in 
that  work.  One  of  them  described  the  driver's 
life  about  as  follows.     He  said : 

"The  blesses  curse  you  because  you  jolt 
them.  The  doctors  curse  you  because  you 
don't  get  the  blesses  in  fast  enough.  The 
Transport  Service  curse  you  because  you  get 


4       JOINING   THE   BRITISH   ARMY 

in  the  way.  You  eat  standing  up  and  don't 
sleep  at  all.  You're  as  likely  as  anybody  to 
get  killed,  and  all  the  glory  you  get  is  the  War 
Cross,  if  you're  lucky,  and  you  don't  get  a 
single  chance  to  kill  a  Hun." 

That  settled  the  ambulance  for  me.  I 
hadn't  wanted  particularly  to  kill  a  Hun  until 
it  was  suggested  that  I  mightn't.  Then  I 
wanted  to  slaughter  a  whole  division. 

So  I  decided  on  something  where  there 
would  be  fighting.  And  having  decided,  I 
thought  I  would  "go  the  whole  hog"  and 
work  my  way  across  to  England  on  a  horse 
transport. 

One  day  in  the  first  part  of  February  I  went, 
at  what  seemed  an  early  hour,  to  an  office  on 
Commercial  Street,  Boston,  where  they  were 
advertising  for  horse  tenders  for  England. 
About  three  hundred  men  were  earlier  than  I. 
It  seemed  as  though  every  beach-comber  and 
patriot  in  New  England  was  trying  to  get 
across.  I  didn't  get  the  job,  but  filed  my  ap- 
plication and  was  lucky  enough  to  be  signed 
on  for  a  sailing  on  February  22  on  the  steam 
ship  Cambrian,  bound  for  London. 


^^■^: 


00 

c5 


5  I 


^         __        o 


o 
O 


3 


"^  .       - 


v:_ 


c 

w 

■^ 

H 

"-1 

-< 

H 

U 

£. 

"i 

•^ 

U) 

0    . 

H 

""    ^ 

« 

^'    ~ 

U 

^i 

0 

--.  ,<^ 

H 

c '" 

0 

K 

*"!  i' 

■< 

-  Jj 

K 

H  >. 

0 

^C'^ 

CO 

^  r- 

•:>  '^ 

5 

« 

^, 

^ 

^ 

—V 

-" 

M 

— ' 

J 

^ 

r-', 

0 

m 

■a 

0 

'^ 

■< 

c     . 

Uh 

c: 

Q 

— 

w 

0 

Cj 

rt 
0, 

t) 

Vi 

Q 

^ 

u 

K 

JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY       5 

We  spent  the  morning  of  Washington's 
Birthday  loading  the  horses.  These  govern- 
ment animals  were  selected  stock  and  full  of 
ginger.  They  seemed  to  know  that  they  were 
going  to  France  and  resented  it  keenly.  Those 
in  my  care  seemed  to  regard  my  attentions  as 
a  personal  affront. 

We  had  a  strenuous  forenoon  getting  the 
horses  aboard,  and  sailed  at  noon.  After  we 
had  herded  in  the  livestock,  some  of  the  of- 
ficers herded  up  the  herders.  I  drew  a  pink 
slip  with  two  numbers  on  it,  one  showing  the 
compartment  where  I  was  supposed  to  sleep, 
the  other  indicating  my  bunk. 

That  compartment  certainly  was  a  glory- 
hole.  Most  of  the  men  had  been  drunk  the 
night  before,  and  the  place  had  the  rich, 
balmy  fragrance  of  a  water-front  saloon.  In- 
cidentally there  was  a  good  deal  of  unauthor- 
ized and  undomesticated  livestock.  I  made  a 
limited  acquaintance  with  that  pretty,  playful 
little  creature,  the  "cootie,"  who  was  to  be- 
come so  familiar  in  the  trenches  later  on.  He 
wasn't  called  a  cootie  aboard  ship,  but  he  was 
the  same  bird. 


6      JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY 

Perhaps  the  less  said  about  that  trip  across 
the  better.  It  lasted  twenty-one  days.  We 
fed  the  animals  three  times  a  day  and  cleaned 
the  stalls  once  on  the  trip.  I  got  chewed  up 
some  and  stepped  on  a  few  times.  Altogether 
the  experience  was  good  intensive  training  for 
the  trench  life  to  come;  especially  the  bunks. 
Those  sleeping  quarters  sure  were  close  and 
crawly. 

We  landed  in  London  on  Saturday  night 
about  nine-thirty.  The  immigration  inspec- 
tors gave  us  a  quick  examination  and  we  were 
turned  back  to  the  shipping  people,  who  paid 
us  off,  —  two  pounds,  equal  to  about  ten  dol- 
lars real  change. 

After  that  we  rode  on  the  train  half  an  hour 
and  then  marched  through  the  streets,  darkened 
to  fool  the  Zeps.  Around  one  o'clock  we 
brought  up  at  Thrawl  Street,  at  the  lodgings 
where  we  were  supposed  to  stop  until  we  were 
started  for  home. 

The  place  where  we  were  quartered  was  a 
typical  London  doss  house.  There  were  forty 
beds  in  the  room  with  mine,  all  of  them  occu- 
pied.    All  hands  were  snoring,  and  the  fellow 


JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY       7 

in  the  next  cot  was  going  it  with  the  cut-out 
wide  open,  breaking  all  records.  Most  of  the 
beds  sagged  like  a  hammock.  Mine  humped 
up  in  the  middle  like  a  pile  of  bricks. 

I  was  up  early  and  was  directed  to  the  place 
across  the  way  where  we  were  to  eat.  It  was 
labeled  "Mother  Wolf's.  The  Universal  Pro- 
vider." She  provided  just  one  meal  of  weak 
tea,  moldy  bread,  and  rancid  bacon  for  me. 
After  that  I  went  to  a  hotel.  I  may  remark 
in  passing  that  horse  tenders,  going  or  coming 
or  in  between  whiles,  do  not  live  on  the  fat 
of  the  land. 

I  spent  the  day  —  it  was  Sunday  —  seeing 
the  sights  of  Whitechapel,  Middlesex  Street 
or  Petticoat  Lane,  and  some  of  the  slums. 
Next  morning  it  was  pretty  clear  to  me  that 
two  pounds  don't  go  far  in  the  big  town. 
I  promptly  boarded  the  first  bus  for  Trafalgar 
Square.  The  recruiting  office  was  just  down 
the  road  in  Whitehall  at  the  old  Scotland  Yard 
oflSce. 

I  had  an  idea  when  I  entered  thaT  recruit- 
ing office  that  the  sergeant  would  receive  me 
with  open  arms.     He  didn't.     Instead  he  looked 


8      JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY 

me  over  with  unqualified  scorn  and  spat  out, 
"Yank,  ayen't  ye?" 

And  I  in  my  innocence  briefly  answered, 
"Yep." 

"We  ayen't  tykin'  no  nootrals,"  he  said,  with 
a  sneer.  And  then:  "Better  go  back  to  Ha- 
merika  and  'elp  Wilson  write  'is  blinkin'  notes." 

Well,  I  was  mad  enough  to  poke  that  ser- 
geant in  the  eye.  But  I  didn't.  I  retired 
gracefully  and  with  dignity. 

At  the  door  another  sergeant  hailed  me, 
whispering  behind  his  hand,  "Hi  sye,  my  tie. 
Come  around  in  the  mornin'.  Hi'll  get  ye  in." 
And  so  it  happened. 

Next  day  my  man  was  waiting  and  marched 
me  boldly  up  to  the  same  chap  who  had  refused 
me  the  day  before. 

"  'Ere's  a  recroot  for  ye,  Jim,"  says  my  friend. 

Jim  never  batted  an  eye.  He  began  to 
"awsk"  questions  and  to  fill  out  a  blank. 
When  he  got  to  the  birthplace,  my  guide  cut 
in  and  said,  "Canada." 

The  only  place  I  knew  in  Canada  was  Campo- 
bello  Island,  a  place  where  we  camped  one 
summer,  and  I  gave  that.     I  don't  think  that 


JOINING   THE  BRITISH  ARMY       9 

anything  but  rabbits  was  ever  born  on  Campo- 
bello,  but  it  went.  For  that  matter  anything 
went.  I  discovered  afterward  that  the  ser- 
geant who  had  captured  me  on  the  street  got 
five  bob    (shillings)    for   me. 

The  physical  examination  upstairs  was  elab- 
orate. They  told  me  to  strip,  weighed  me,  and 
said  I  was  fit.  After  that  I  was  taken  in  to 
an  officer  —  a  real  officer  this  time  —  who 
made  me  put  my  hand  on  a  Bible  and  say  yes 
to  an  oath  he  rattled  off.  Then  he  told  me 
I  was  a  member  of  the  Royal  Fusiliers,  gave 
me  two  shillings,  sixpence  and  ordered  me  to 
report  at  the  Horse  Guards  Parade  next  day. 
I  was  in  the  British  army,  —  just  like  that ! 

I  spent  the  balance  of  the  day  seeing  the 
sights  of  London,  and  incidentally  spending 
my  coin.  When  I  went  around  to  the  Horse 
Guards  next  morning,  two  hundred  others, 
new  rookies  like  myself,  were  waiting.  An 
officer  gave  me  another  two  shillings,  sixpence. 
I  began  to  think  that  if  the  money  kept  coming 
along  at  that  rate  the  British  army  might  turn 
out   a  good   investment.     It   didn't. 

That  morning  I  was  sent  out  to  Hounslow 


10     JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY 

Barracks,  and  three  days  later  was  transferred 
to  Dover  with  twenty  others.  I  was  at  Dover 
a  little  more  than  two  months  and  completed 
my  training  there. 

Our  barracks  at  Dover  was  on  the  heights 
of  the  cliffs,  and  on  clear  days  we  could  look 
across  the  Channel  and  see  the  dim  outlines 
of  France.  It  was  a  fascination  for  all  of  us 
to  look  away  over  there  and  to  wonder  what 
fortunes  were  to  come  to  us  on  the  battle 
fields  of  Europe.  It  was  perhaps  as  well  that 
none  of  us  had  imagination  enough  to  visualize 
the  things  that  were  ahead. 

I  found  the  rookies  at  Dover  a  jolly,  compan- 
ionable lot,  and  I  never  found  the  routine  irk- 
some. We  were  up  at  five-thirty,  had  cocoa 
and  biscuits,  and  then  an  hour  of  physical 
drill  or  bayonet  practice.  At  eight  came  break- 
fast of  tea,  bacon,  and  bread,  and  then  we 
drilled  until  twelve.  Dinner.  Out  again  on 
the  parade  ground  until  three  thirty.  After 
that  we  were  free. 

Nights  we  would  go  into  Dover  and  sit 
around  the  "pubs"  drinking  ale,  or  "ayle" 
as  the  cockney  says  it. 


JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY     11 

After  a  few  weeks,  when  we  were  hardened 
somewhat,  they  began  to  inflict  us  with  the 
torture  known  as  "night  ops."  That  means 
going  out  at  ten  o'clock  under  full  pack,  hik- 
ing several  miles,  and  then  "manning"  the 
trenches  around  the  town  and  returning  to 
barracks  at  three  a.m. 

This  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad  if  we  had 
been  excused  parades  the  following  day.  But 
no.  We  had  the  same  old  drills  except  the 
early  one,  but  were  allowed  to  "kip"  until 
seven. 

In  the  two  months  I  completed  the  mus- 
ketry course,  was  a  good  bayonet  man,  and 
was  well  grounded  in  bombing  practice.  Be- 
sides that  I  was  as  hard  as  nails  and  had 
learned  thoroughly  the  system  of  British  dis- 
cipline. 

I  had  supposed  that  it  took  at  least  six 
months  to  make  a  soldier,  —  in  fact  had  been 
told  that  one  could  not  be  turned  out  who 
would  be  ten  per  cent  eflScient  in  less  than  that 
time.  That  old  theory  is  all  wrong.  Modern 
warfare  changes  so  fast  that  the  only  thing 
that  can  be  taught  a  man  is  the  basic  prin- 


12     JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY 

ciples  of  discipline,  bombing,  trench  warfare, 
and  musketry.  Give  him  those  things,  a  well- 
conditioned  body,  and  a  baptism  of  fire,  and 
he  will  be  right  there  with  the  veterans,  doing 
his  bit. 

Two  months  was  all  our  crowd  got  at  any  rate, 
and  they  were  as  good  as  the  best,  if  I  do  say  it. 

My  training  ended  abruptly  with  a  furlough 
of  five  days  for  Embarkation  Leave,  that  is, 
leave  before  going  to  France.  This  is  a  sort 
of  good-by  vacation.  Most  fellows  realize 
fully  that  it  may  be  their  last  look  at  Blighty, 
and  they  take  it  rather  solemnly.  To  a 
stranger  without  friends  in  England  I  can 
imagine  that  this  Embarkation  Leave  would 
be  either  a  mighty  lonesome,  dismal  affair,  or 
a  stretch  of  desperate,  homesick  dissipation. 
A  chap  does  want  to  say  good-by  to  some  one 
before  he  goes  away,  perhaps  to  die.  He  wants 
to  be  loved  and  to  have  some  one  sorry  that 
he  is  going. 

I  was  invited  by  one  of  my  chums  to  spend 
the  leave  with  him  at  his  home  in  Southall, 
Middlesex.  His  father,  mother  and  sister  wel- 
comed me  in  a  way  that  made  me  know  it 


JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY     13 

was  my  home  from  tlie  minute  I  entered  the 
door.  Thej^  took  me  into  their  hearts  with  a 
simple  hospitahty  and  whole-souled  kindness 
that  I  can  never  forget.  I  was  a  stranger  in 
a  strange  land  and  they  made  me  one  of  their 
own.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  all  the 
loving  thoughts  and  deeds  of  that  family  and 
shall  remember  them  while  I  live.  My  chum's 
mother  I  call  Mother  too.  It  is  to  her  that  I 
have  dedicated  this  book. 

After  my  delightful  few  days  of  leave, 
things  moved  fast.  I  was  back  in  Dover  just 
two  days  when  I,  with  two  hundred  other 
men,  was  sent  to  Winchester,  Here  we  were 
notified  that  we  were  transferred  to  the  Queen's 
Royal  West  Surrey  Regiment. 

This  news  brought  a  wild  howl  from  the 
men.  They  wanted  to  stop  with  the  Fusiliers. 
It  is  part  of  the  British  system  that  every  man 
is  taught  the  traditions  and  history  of  his 
regiment  and  to  know  that  his  is  absolutely 
the  best  in  the  whole  army.  In  a  surprisingly 
short  time  they  get  so  they  swear  by  their 
own  regiment  and  by  their  officers,  and  they 
protest  bitterly  at  a  transfer. 


14     JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY 

Personally  I  didn't  care  a  rap.  I  had  early 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  was  a  very  small 
pebble  on  the  beach  and  that  it  was  up  to  me 
to  obey  orders  and  keep  my  mouth  shut. 

On  June  17,  some  eighteen  hundred  of  us 
were  moved  down  to  Southampton  and  put 
aboard  the  transport  for  Havre.  The  next 
day  we  were  in  France,  at  Harfleur,  the  central 
training  camp  outside  Havre. 

We  were  supposed  to  undergo  an  intensive 
training  at  Harfleur  in  the  various  forms  of 
gas  and  protection  from  it,  barbed  wire  and 
methods  of  construction  of  entanglements, 
musketry,   bombing,   and  bayonet  fighting. 

Harfleur  was  a  miserable  place.  They  re- 
fused to  let  us  go  in  town  after  drill.  Also  I 
managed  to  let  myself  in  for  something  that 
would  have  kept  me  in  camp  if  town  leave  had 
been  allowed. 

The  first  day  there  was  a  call  for  a  volunteer 
for  musketry  instructor.  I  had  qualified  and 
jumped  at  it.  When  I  reported,  an  old  Scotch 
sergeant  told  me  to  go  to  the  quartermaster 
for  equipment.  I  said  I  already  had  full 
equipment.     Whereupon  the  sergeant  laughed 


JOINING  THE  BRITISH  ARMY     15 

a  rumbling  Scotch  laugh  and  told  me  I  had  to 
go  into  kilts,  as  I  was  assigned  to  a  Highland 
contingent. 

I  protested  with  violence  and  enthusiasm, 
but  it  didn't  do  any  good.  They  gave  me  a 
dinky  little  pleated  petticoat,  and  when  I 
demanded  breeks  to  wear  underneath,  I  got 
the  merry  ha  ha.  Breeks  on  a  Scotchman? 
Never ! 

Well,  I  got  into  the  fool  things,  and  I  felt 
as  though  I  was  naked  from  ankle  to  wishbone. 
I  couldn't  get  used  to  the  outfit.  I  am  naturally 
a  modest  man.  Besides,  my  architecture  was 
never  intended  for  bare-leg  effects.  I  have 
no  dimples  in  my  knees. 

So  I  began  an  immediate  campaign  for  trans- 
fer back  to  the  Surreys.  I  got  it  at  the  end  of 
ten  days,  and  with  it  came  a  hurry  call  from 
somewhere  at  the  front  for  more  troops. 


CHAPTER  II 

Going  In 

rp^HE  excitement  of  getting  away  from 
camp  and  the  knowledge  that  we  were 
soon  to  get  into  the  thick  of  the  big  game 
pleased  most  of  us.  We  were  glad  to  go. 
At  least  we  thought  so. 

Two  hundred  of  us  were  loaded  into  side- 
door  Pullmans,  forty  to  the  car.  It  was  a 
kind  of  sardine  or  Boston  Elevated  effect, 
and  by  the  time  we  reached  Rouen,  twenty- 
four  hours  later,  we  had  kinks  in  our  legs  and 
corns  on  our  elbows.  Also  we  were  hungry, 
having  had  nothing  but  bully  beef  and  bis- 
cuits. We  made  "char",  which  is  trench 
slang  for  tea,  in  the  station,  and  after  two 
hours  moved  up  the  line  again,  this  time  in 
real  coaches. 

Next  night  we  were  billeted  at  Barlin  — 
don't  get  that  mixed  up  with  Berlin,  it's  not 
the  same  —  in  an  abandoned  convent  within 


GOING  IN  17 

range  of  the  German  guns.  The  roar  of 
artillery  was  continuous  and  sounded  pretty 
close. 

Now  and  again  a  shell  would  burst  near  by 
with  a  kind  of  hollow  "spung",  but  for  some 
reason  we  didn't  seem  to  mind.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  get  the  shivers  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  guns  and  was  surprised  when  I  woke 
up  in  the  morning  after  a  solid  night's  sleep. 

A  message  came  down  from  the  front  trenches 
at  daybreak  that  we  were  wanted  and  wanted 
quick.  We  slung  together  a  dixie  of  char  and 
some  bacon  and  bread  for  breakfast,  and 
marched  around  to  the  "  quarters  ",  where  they 
issued  "tin  hats",  extra  "ammo",  and  a 
second  gas  helmet.  A  good  many  of  the  men 
had  been  out  before,  and  they  did  the  cus- 
tomary "grousing"  over  the  added  load. 

The  British  Tommy  growls  or  grouses  over 
anything  and  everything.  He's  never  happy 
unless  he's  unhappy.  He  resents  especially 
having  anything  officially  added  to  his  pack, 
and  you  can't  blame  him,  for  in  full  equip- 
ment he  certainly  is  all  dressed  up  like  a  pack 
horse. 


18  GOING  IN 

After  the  issue  we  were  split  up  into  four 
lots  for  the  four  companies  of  the  battalion, 
and  after  some  "wangling"  I  got  into  Com- 
pany C,  where  I  stopped  all  the  time  I  was 
in  France.  I  was  glad,  because  most  of  my 
chums  were  in  that  unit. 

We  got  into  our  packs  and  started  up  the 
line  immediately.  As  we  neared  the  lines  we 
were  extended  into  artillery  formation,  that 
is,  spread  out  so  that  a  shell  bursting  in  the 
road  would  inflict  fewer  casualties. 

At  Bully-Grenay,  the  point  where  we  entered 
the  communication  trenches,  guides  met  us  and 
looked  us  over,  commenting  most  frankly  and 
freely  on  our  appearance.  They  didn't  seem 
to  think  we  would  amount  to  much,  and  said 
so.  They  agreed  that  the  "bloomin'  Yank" 
must  be  a  "bloody  fool"  to  come  out  there. 
There  were  times  later  when  I  agreed  with 
them. 

It  began  to  rain  as  we  entered  the  communi- 
cation trench,  and  I  had  my  first  taste  of  mud. 
That  is  literal,  for  with  mud  knee-deep  in  a 
trench  just  wide  enough  for  two  men  to  pass 
you  get  smeared  from  head  to  foot. 


GOING  IN  19 

Incidentally,  as  we  approached  nearer  the 
front,  I  got  my  first  smell  of  the  dead.  It  is 
something  you  never  get  away  from  in  the 
trenches.  So  many  dead  have  been  buried 
so  hastily  and  so  lightly  that  they  are  con- 
stantly being  uncovered  by  shell  bursts.  The 
acrid  stench  pervades  everything,  and  is  so 
thick  you  can  fairly  taste  it.  It  makes  nearly 
everybody  deathly  sick  at  first,  but  one  be- 
comes used  to  it  as  to  anything  else. 

This  communication  trench  was  over  two 
miles  long,  and  it  seemed  like  twenty.  We 
finally  landed  in  a  support  trench  called  "Me- 
chanics" (every  trench  has  a  name,  like  a 
street),  and  from  there  into  the  first-line 
trench. 

I  have  to  admit  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
in  that  first  trench.  I  don't  know  what  I 
expected  to  see,  but  what  I  did  see  was  just 
a  long,  crooked  ditch  with  a  low  step  running 
along  one  side,  and  with  sandbags  on  top. 
Here  and  there  was  a  muddy,  bedraggled 
Tommy  half  asleep,  nursing  a  dirty  and  muddy 
rifle  on  "sentry  go."  Everything  was  very 
quiet  at  the  moment  —  no  rifles  popping,  as 


20  GOING  IN 

I  had  expected,  no  bullets  flying,  and,  as  it 
happened,  absolutely  no  shelling  in  the  whole 
sector. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  we  had  come  up  by 
daylight.  Ordinarily  troops  are  moved  at 
night,  but  the  communication  trench  from 
Bully-Grenay  was  very  deep  and  was  pro- 
tected at  points  by  little  hills,  and  it  was 
possible  to  move  men  in  the  daytime. 

Arrived  in  the  front  trench,  the  sergeant- 
major  appeared,  crawling  out  of  his  dug-out 
—  the  usual  place  for  a  sergeant-major  — 
and  greeted  us  with, 

"Keep  your  nappers  down,  you  rooks. 
Don't  look  over  the  top.     It  ayen't  'ealthy." 

It  is  the  regular  warning  to  new  men.  For 
some  reason  the  first  emotion  of  the  rookie 
is  an  overpowering  curiosity.  He  wants  to 
take  a  peep  into  No  Man's  Land.  It  feels 
safe  enough  when  things  are  quiet.  But 
there's  always  a  Fritzie  over  yonder  with  a 
telescope-sighted  rifle,  and  it's  about  ten  to  one 
he'll  get  you  if  you  stick  the  old  "napper"  up  in 
daylight. 

The  Germans,   by  the  way,  have  had  the 


GOING  IN  21 

"edge"  on  the  Allies  in  the  matter  of  sniping, 
as  in  almost  all  lines  of  artillery  and  musketry 
practice.  The  Boche  sniper  is  nearly  always 
armed  with  a  periscope-telescope  rifle.  This 
is  a  specially  built  super-accurate  rifle  mounted 
on  a  periscope  frame.  It  is  thrust  up  over 
the  parapet  and  the  image  of  the  opposing 
parapet  is  cast  on  a  little  ground-glass  screen 
on  which  are  two  crossed  lines.  At  one  hun- 
dred fifty  yards  or  less  the  image  is  brought 
up  to  touching  distance  seemingly.  Fritz 
simply  trains  his  piece  on  some  low  place  or 
anywhere  that  a  head  may  be  expected.  When 
one  appears  on  the  screen,  he  pulls  the  trigger, 
—  and  you  "click  it"  if  you  happen  to  be  on 
the  other  or  receiving  end.  The  shooter  never 
shows  himself. 

I  remember  the  first  time  I  looked  through 
a  periscope  I  had  no  sooner  thrust  the  thing 
up  than  a  bullet  crashed  into  the  upper  mirror, 
splintering  it.  Many  times  I  have  stuck  up 
a  cap  on  a  stick  and  had  it  pierced. 

The  British  sniper,  on  the  other  hand  —  at 
least  in  my  time  —  had  a  plain  telescope  rifle 
and  had  to  hide  himself  behind  old  masonry, 


22  GOING   IN 

tree  trunks,  or  anything  convenient,  and 
camouflaged  himself  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  At 
that  he  was  constantly  in  danger. 

I  was  assigned  to  Platoon  10  and  found  they 
were  a  good  live  bunch.  Corporal  Wells  was 
the  best  of  the  lot,  and  we  became  fast  friends. 
He  helped  me  learn  a  lot  of  my  new  duties 
and  the  trench  "lingo",  which  is  like  a  new 
language,  especially  to  a  Yank. 

Wells  started  right  in  to  make  me  feel  at 
home  and  took  me  along  with  two  others  of 
the  new  men  down  to  our  "apartments",  a 
dug-out  built  for  about  four,  and  housing  ten. 

My  previous  idea  of  a  dug-out  had  been  a 
fairly  roomy  sort  of  cave,  somewhat  damp,  but 
comparatively  comfortable.  Well,  this  hole 
was  about  four  and  a  half  feet  high  —  you  had 
to  get  in  doubled  up  on  your  hands  and  knees 
—  about  five  by  six  feet  on  the  sides,  and 
there  was  no  floor,  just  muck.  There  was 
some  sodden,  dirty  straw  and  a  lot  of  old 
moldy  sandbags.  Seven  men  and  their  equip- 
ment were  packed  in  here,  and  we  made  ten. 

There  was  a  charcoal  brazier  going  in  the 
middle  with  two  or  three  mess  tins  of  char 


GOING  IN  23 

boiling  away.  Everybody  was  smoking,  and 
the  place  stunk  to  high  heaven,  or  it  would 
have  if  there  hadn't  been  a  bit  of  burlap  over 
the  door. 

I  crowded  up  into  a  corner  with  my  back 
against  the  mud  wall  and  my  knees  under  my 
chin.  The  men  didn't  seem  overglad  to  see 
us,  and  groused  a  good  deal  about  the  extra 
crowding.  They  regarded  me  with  extra  dis- 
favor because  I  was  a  lance  corporal,  and  they 
disapproved  of  any  young  whipper-snapper 
just  out  from  Blighty  with  no  trench  experience 
pitchforked  in  with  even  a  slight  superior 
rank.  I  had  thought  up  to  then  that  a  lance 
corporal  was  pretty  near  as  important  as  a 
brigadier. 

"We'll  soon  tyke  that  stripe  off  ye,  me  bold 
lad,"  said  one  big  cockney. 

They  were  a  decent  lot  after  all.  Since  we 
were  just  out  from  Blighty,  they  showered  us 
with  questions  as  to  how  things  looked  "f 
'ome."  And  then  somebody  asked  what  was 
the  latest  song.  Right  here  was  where  I 
made  my  hit  and  got  in  right.  I  sing  a  bit, 
and  I  piped  up  with  the  newest  thing  from 


24  GOING   IN 

the  music  halls,  "Tyke  Me  Back  to  Blighty." 
Here  it  is : 

Tyke  me  back  to  dear  old  Blighty, 
Put  me  on  the  tryne  for  London  town. 
Just  tyke  me  over  there 
And  drop  me  anywhere, 
Manchester,  Leeds,  or  Birmingham, 
I  don't  care. 

I  want  to  go  see  me  best  gal ; 
Cuddlin'  up  soon  we'll  be, 
Hytey  iddle  de  eyety. 
Tyke  me  back  to  Blighty, 
That's  the  plyce  for  me. 

It  doesn't  look  like  much  and  I'm  afraid 
my  rendition  of  cockney  dialect  into  print 
isn't  quite  up  to  Kipling's.  But  the  song 
had  a  pretty  little  lilting  melody,  and  it  went 
big.  They  made  me  sing  it  about  a  dozen 
times  and  were  all  joining  in  at  the  end. 

Then  they  got  sentimental  —  and  gloomy. 

"Gawd  lumme!"  says  the  big  fellow  who 
had  threatened  my  beloved  stripies.  "Wot  a 
life.  Squattin'  'ere  in  the  bloody  mud  like  a 
blinkin'  frog.  Fightin'  fer  wot  ?  Wot,  I  arsks 
yer  ?  Gawd  lumme !  I'd  give  me  bloomin' 
napper  to  stroll  down  the  Strand  agyne  wif 


GOING  IN  25 

me  swagger  stick  an'  drop  in  a  private  bar 
an'  'ave  me  go  of  'Aig  an'  'Aig." 

"Garn,"  cuts  in  another  Tommy.  "Yer 
blinkin'  'igh  wif  yer  wants,  ayen't  ye?  An' 
yer  'Aig  an'  'Aig.  Drop  me  down  in  Great 
Lime  Street  (Liverpool)  an'  it's  me  fer  the 
Golden  Sheaf,  and  a  pint  of  bitter,  an'  me  a 
'oldin'  'Arriet's  'and  over  th'  bar.  I'm  a 
courtin'  'er  when,"  etc.,  etc. 

And  then  a  fresh-faced  lad  chirps  up:  "T' 
'ell  wif  yer  Lonnon  an'  yer  whuskey.  Gimme 
a  jug  o'  cider  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  'ay  rick 
in  old  Surrey.  Gimme  a  happle  tart  to  go 
wif  it.     Gawd,  I'm  fed  up  on  bully  beef." 

And  so  it  went.  All  about  pubs  and  bar- 
maids and  the  things  they'd  eat  and  drink, 
and  all  of  it  Blighty. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion  of 
what  part  of  the  body  was  most  desirable  to 
part  with  for  a  permanent  Blighty  wound 
when  a  young  officer  pushed  aside  the  burlap 
and  wedged  in.  He  was  a  lieutenant  and  was 
in  command  of  our  platoon.  His  name  was 
Blofeld. 

Blofeld    was    most    democratic.     He    shook 


26  GOING  IN 

hands  with  the  new  men  and  said  he  hoped 
we'd  be  live  wires,  and  then  he  told  us  what 
he  wanted.  There  was  to  be  a  raid  the  next 
night  and  he  was  looking  for  volunteers. 

Nobody  spoke  for  a  long  minute,  and  then 
I  offered. 

I  think  I  spoke  more  to  break  the  embarrass- 
ing silence  than  anything  else.  I  think,  too, 
that  I  was  led  a  little  by  a  kind  of  youthful 
curiosity,  and  it  may  be  that  I  wanted  to 
appear  brave  in  the  eyes  of  these  men  who 
so  evidently  held  me  more  or  less  in  contempt 
as  a  newcomer. 

Blofeld  accepted  me,  and  one  of  the  other 
new  men  offered.     He  was  taken  too. 

It  turned  out  that  all  the  older  men  were 
married  and  that  they  were  not  expected  to 
volunteer.  At  least  there  was  no  disgrace 
attaching  to  a  refusal. 

After  Blofeld  left,  Sergeant  Page  told  us 
we'd  better  get  down  to  "kip"  while  we  could. 
"Kip"  in  this  case  meant  closing  our  eyes 
and  dozing.  I  sat  humped  up  in  my  original 
position  through  the  night.  There  wasn't 
room  to  stretch  out. 


GOING   IN  27 

Along  toward  morning  I  began  to  itch,  and 
found  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  that 
gay  and  festive  Kttle  soldier's  enemy,  the 
"cootie."  The  cootie,  or  the  "chat"  as  he 
is  called  by  the  oflScers,  is  the  common  body 
louse.  Common  is  right.  I  never  got  rid 
of  mine  until  I  left  the  service.  Sometimes 
when  I  get  to  thinking  about  it,  I  believe  I 
haven't  yet. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  Trench  Raid 

TN  the  morning  the  members  of  the  raiding 
party  were  taken  back  a  mile  or  so  to  the 
rear  and  were  given  instruction  and  rehearsal. 
This  was  the  first  raid  that  "Batt"  had  ever 
tried,  and  the  staff  was  anxious  to  have  it  a 
success.  There  were  fifty  in  the  party,  and 
Blofeld,  who  had  organized  the  raid,  beat  our 
instructions  into  us  until  we  knew  them  by 
heart. 

The  object  of  a  raid  is  to  get  into  the  enemy's 
trenches  by  stealth  if  possible,  kill  as  many  as 
possible,  take  prisoners  if  practicable,  do  a 
lot  of  damage,  and  get  away  with  a  whole  hide. 

We  got  back  to  the  front  trenches  just  before 
dark.  I  noticed  a  lot  of  metal  cylinders  ar- 
ranged along  the  parapet.  They  were  about 
as  big  as  a  stovepipe  and  four  feet  long,  painted 
brown.  They  were  the  gas  containers.  They 
were  arranged  about  four  or  five  to  a  traverse, 


< 

o 
< 

« 

a 

a 
z 

« 

w 

1S3 
H 

o 


A  TRENCH  RAID  29 

and  were  connected  up  by  tubes  and  were 
covered  with  sandbags.  This  was  the  poison 
gas  ready  for  release  over  the  top  through 
tubes. 

The  time  set  for  our  stunt  was  eleven  p.m. 
Eleven  o'clock  was  "zero."  The  system  on 
the  Western  Front,  and,  in  fact,  all  fronts,  is 
to  indicate  the  time  fixed  for  any  event  as 
zero.  Anything  before  or  after  is  spoken  of 
as  plus  or  minus  zero. 

Around  five  o'clock  we  were  taken  back  to 
Mechanics  trench  and  fed  —  a  regular  meal 
with  plenty  of  everything,  and  all  good.  It 
looked  rather  like  giving  a  condemned  man  a 
hearty  meal,  but  grub  is  always  acceptable 
to  a  soldier. 

After  that  we  blacked  our  faces.  This  is 
always  done  to  prevent  the  whiteness  of  the 
skin  from  showing  under  the  flare  lights.  Also 
to  distinguish  your  own  men  when  you  get  to 
the  Boche  trench. 

Then  we  wrote  letters  and  gave  up  our 
identification  discs  and  were  served  with  per- 
suader sticks  or  knuckle  knives,  and  with 
"Mills"  bombs. 


30  A  TRENCH  RAID 

The  persuader  is  a  short,  heavy  bludgeon 
with  a  nail-studded  head.  You  thump  Fritz 
on  the  head  with  it.  Very  handy  at  close 
quarters.  The  knuckle  knife  is  a  short  dagger 
with  a  heavy  brass  hilt  that  covers  the  hand. 
Also  very  good  for  close  work,  as  you  can 
either  strike  or  stab  with  it. 

We  moved  up  to  the  front  trenches  at  about 
half-past  ten.  At  zero  minus  ten,  that  is, 
ten  minutes  of  eleven,  our  artillery  opened  up. 
It  was  the  first  bombardment  I  had  ever  been 
under,  and  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  guns 
in  the  world  were  banging  away.  After- 
wards I  found  that  it  was  comparatively 
light,  but  it  didn't  seem  so  then. 

The  guns  were  hardly  started  when  there 
was  a  sound  like  escaping  steam.  Jerry  leaned 
over  and  shouted  in  my  ear:  "There  goes  the 
gas.     May  it  finish  the  blighters." 

Blofeld  came  dashing  up  just  then,  very 
much  excited  because  he  found  we  had  not 
put  on  our  masks,  through  some  slip-up  in 
the  orders.  We  got  into  them  quick.  But 
as  it  turned  out  there  was  no  need.  There 
was  a  fifteen-mile  wind  blowing,  which  carried 


A  TRENCH  RAID  31 

the  gas  away  from  us  very  rapidly.  In  fact 
it  blew  it  across  the  Boche  trenches  so  fast 
that  it  didn't  bother  them  either. 

The  barrage  fire  kept  up  right  up  to  zero, 
as  per  schedule.  At  thirty  seconds  of  eleven 
I  looked  at  my  watch  and  the  din  was  at  its 
height.  At  exactly  eleven  it  stopped  short. 
Fritz  was  still  sending  some  over,  but  com- 
paratively there  was  silence.  After  the  ear- 
splitting  racket  it  was  almost  still  enough  to 
hurt. 

And  in  that  silence  over  the  top  we  went. 

Lanes  had  been  cut  through  our  wire,  and 
we  got  through  them  quickly.  The  trenches 
were  about  one  hundred  twenty  yards 
apart  and  we  still  had  nearly  one  hundred 
to  go.  We  dropped  and  started  to  crawl.  I 
skinned  both  my  knees  on  something,  prob- 
ably old  wire,  and  both  hands.  I  could  feel 
the  blood  running  into  my  puttees,  and  my 
rifle  bothered  me  as  I  was  afraid  of  jabbing 
Jerry,  who  was  just  ahead  of  me  as  first  bayonet 
man. 

They  say  a  drowning  man  or  a  man  in  great 
danger  reviews  his   past.     I  didn't.     I   spent 


32  A  TRENCH  RAID 

those  few  minutes  wondering  when  the  machine- 
gun  fire  would  come. 

I  had  the  same  "gone"  feeling  in  the  pit 
cf  the  stomach  that  you  have  when  you  drop 
fast  in  an  elevator.  The  skin  on  my  face  felt 
tight,  and  I  remember  that  I  wanted  to  pucker 
my  nose  and  pull  my  upper  lip  down  over  my 
teeth. 

We  got  clean  up  to  their  wire  before  they 
spotted  us.  Their  entanglements  had  been 
flattened  by  our  barrage  fire,  but  we  had  to 
get  up  to  pick  our  way  through,  and  they  saw 
us. 

Instantly  the  "Very"  lights  began  to  go 
up  in  scores,  and  hell  broke  loose.  They 
must  have  turned  twenty  machine  guns  on 
us,  or  at  us,  but  their  aim  evidently  was  high, 
for  they  only  "clicked"  two  out  of  our  im- 
mediate party.  We  had  started  with  ten 
men,  the  other  fifty  being  divided  into  three 
more  parties  farther  down  the  line. 

"^Tien  the  machine  guns  started,  we  charged. 
Jerry  and  I  were  ahead  as  bayonet  men,  with 
the  rest  of  the  party  following  with  buckets  of 
"Mills"  bombs  and  "Stokeses." 


A   TRENCH  RAID  33 

It  was  pretty  light,  there  were  so  many 
flares  going  up  from  both  sides.  When  I 
jumped  on  the  parapet,  there  was  a  whahng 
big  Boche  looking  up  at  me  with  his  rifle 
resting  on  the  sandbags.  I  was  almost  on 
the  point  of  his  bayonet. 

For  an  instant  I  stood  with  a  kind  of  para- 
lyzed sensation,  and  there  flashed  through 
my  mind  the  instructions  of  the  manual  for 
such  a  situation,  only  I  didn't  apply  those 
instructions  to  this  emergency. 

Instead  I  thought  —  if  such  a  flash  could  be 
called  thinking  —  how  I,  as  an  instructor, 
would  have  told  a  rookie  to  act,  working  on 
a  dummy.  I  had  a  sort  of  detached  feeling 
as  though  this  was  a  silly  dream. 

Probably  this  hesitation  didn't  last  more 
than  a  second. 

Then,  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  I  saw 
Jerry  lunge,  and  I  lunged  too.  Why  that 
Boche  did  not  fire  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he 
did  and  missed.  Anyhow  I  went  down  and  in 
on  him,  and  the  bayonet  went  through  his  throat. 

Jerry  had  done  his  man  in  and  all  hands 
piled  into  the  trench. 


34  A  TRENCH  RAID 

Then  we  started  to  race  along  the  traverses. 
We  found  a  machine  gun  and  put  an  eleven- 
pound  high-explosive  "  Stokes  "  under  it.  Three 
or  four  Germans  appeared,  running  down  com- 
munication trenches,  and  the  bombers  sent  a 
few  Millses  after  them.  Then  we  came  to  a 
dug-out  door  —  in  fact,  several,  as  Fritz, 
like  a  woodchuck,  always  has  more  than  one 
entrance  to  his  burrow.  We  broke  these  in 
in  jig  time  and  looked  down  a  thirty -foot  hole 
on  a  dug-out  full  of  graybacks.  There  must 
have  been  a  lot  of  them.  I  could  plainly  see 
four  or  five  faces  looking  up  with  surprised 
expressions. 

Blofeld  chucked  in  two  or  three  Millses  and 
away  we  went. 

A  little  farther  along  we  came  to  the  en- 
trance of  a  mine  shaft,  a  kind  of  incline  running 
toward  our  lines.  Blofeld  went  in  it  a  little 
way  and  flashed  his  light.  He  thought  it  was 
about  forty  yards  long.  We  put  sev^eral  of 
our  remaining  Stokeses  in  that  and  wrecked 
it. 

Turning  the  corner  of  the  next  traverse,  I 
saw  Jerry  drop  his  rifle  and  unlimber  his  per- 


A  TRENCH  RAID  35 

suader  on  a  huge  German  who  had  just  rounded 
the  corner  of  the  "bay."  He  made  a  good 
job  of  it,  getting  him  in  the  face,  and  must 
have  simply  caved  him  in,  but  not  before  he 
had  thrown  a  bomb.  I  had  broken  my  bayonet 
prying  the  dug-out  door  off  and  had  my  gun 
up-ended  —  ckibbed. 

When  I  saw  that  bomb  coming,  I  bunted  at 
it  Hke  Ty  Cobb  trying  to  sacrifice.  It  was 
the  only  thing  to  do.  I  choked  my  bat  and 
poked  at  the  bomb  instinctively,  and  by  sheer 
good  luck  fouled  the  thing  over  the  parapet. 
It  exploded  on  the  other  side. 

"Blimme  eyes,"  says  Jerry,  "that's  cool 
work.  You  saved  us  the  wooden  cross  that 
time." 

We  had  found  two  more  machine  guns  and 
were  planting  Stokeses  under  them  when  we 
heard  the  Lewises  giving  the  recall  signal.  A 
good  gunner  gets  so  he  can  play  a  tune  on  a 
Lewis,  and  the  device  is  frequently  used  for 
signals.  This  time  he  thumped  out  the  old 
one  —  "All  policemen  have  big  feet."  Rat- 
a-tat-tat  —  tat,  tat. 

It  didn't  come  any  too  soon. 


36  A   TRENCH   RAID 

As  we  scrambled  over  the  parapet  we  saw  a 
big  party  of  Germans  coming  up  from  the 
second  trenches.  They  were  out  of  the  com- 
munication trenches  and  were  coming  across 
lots.  There  must  have  been  fifty  of  them, 
outnumbering  us  five  or  six  to  one. 

We  were  out  of  bombs,  Jerry  had  lost  his 
rifle,  and  mine  had  no  "ammo."  Blofeld 
fired  the  last  shot  from  his  revolver  and, 
believe  me,  we  hooked  it  for  home. 

We  had  been  in  their  trenches  just  three 
and  a  half  minutes. 

Just  as  we  were  going  through  their  wire  a 
bomb  exploded  near  and  got  Jerry  in  the  head. 
We  dragged  him  in  and  also  the  two  men  that 
had  been  clicked  on  the  first  fire.  Jerry  got 
Blighty  on  his  wound,  but  was  back  in  two 
months.  The  second  time  he  wasn't  so  lucky. 
He  lies  now  somewhere  in  France  with  a 
wooden  cross  over  his  head. 

Did  that  muddy  old  trench  look  good  when 
we  tumbled  in  ?  Oh,  Boy !  The  staff  was 
tickled  to  pieces  and  complimented  us  all. 
We  were  sent  out  of  the  lines  that  night  and 
in  billets  got  hot   food,  high-grade  "fags",  a 


A   TRENCH  RAID  37 

real  bath,  a  good  stiff  rum  ration,  and  letters 
from  home. 

Next  morning  we  heard  the  results  of  the 
raid.  One  party  of  twelve  never  returned. 
Besides  that  we  lost  seven  men  killed.  The 
German  loss  was  estimated  at  about  one 
hundred  casualties,  six  machine  guns  and 
several  dug-outs  destroyed,  and  one  mine 
shaft  put  out  of  business.  We  also  brought 
back  documents  of  value  found  by  one  party 
in  an  officer's  dug-out. 

Blofeld  got  the  military  cross  for  the  night's 
work,  and  several  of  the  enlisted  men  got  the 
D.  C.  M. 

Altogether  it  was  a  successful  raid.  The 
best  part  of  it  was  getting  back. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  Few  Days'  Rest  in  Billets 

A  FTER  the  strafing  we  had  given  Fritz 
on  the  raid,  he  behaved  himself  reasonably 
well  for  quite  a  while.  It  was  the  first  raid 
that  had  been  made  on  that  sector  for  a  long 
time,  and  we  had  no  doubt  caught  the  Ger- 
mans off  their  guard. 

Anyhow  for  quite  a  spell  afterwards  they 
were  very  "windy"  and  would  send  up  the 
"Very"  lights  on  the  slightest  provocation 
and  start  the  "typewriters"  a-rattling.  Fritz 
was  right  on  the  job  with  his  eye  peeled  all  the 
time. 

In  fact  he  was  so  keen  that  another  raid 
that  was  attempted  ten  days  later  failed 
completely  because  of  a  rapidly  concentrated 
and  heavy  machine-gun  fire,  and  in  another, 
a  day  or  two  later,  our  men  never  got  beyond 


A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS    39 

our  own  wire  and  had  thirty-eight  casualties 
out  of  fifty  men  engaged. 

But  so  far  as  anything  but  defensive  work 
was  concerned,  Fritz  was  very  meek.  He  sent 
over  very  few  "minnies"  or  rifle  grenades,  and 
there  was  hardly  any  shelling  of  the  sector. 

Directly  after  the  raid,  we  who  were  in  the 
party  had  a  couple  of  days  *'on  our  own" 
at  the  little  village  of  Bully-Grenay,  less  than 
three  miles  behind  the  lines.  This  is  directly 
opposite  Lens,  the  better  known  town  which 
figures  so  often  in  the  dispatches. 

Bully-Grenay  had  been  a  place  of  perhaps 
one  thousand  people.  It  had  been  fought 
over  and  through  and  around  early  in  the 
war,  and  was  pretty  well  battered  up.  There 
were  a  few  houses  left  unhit  and  the  town  hall 
and  several  shops.  The  rest  of  the  place  was 
ruins,  but  about  two  hundred  of  the  inhab- 
itants still  stuck  to  their  old  homes.  For 
some  reason  the  Germans  did  not  shell  Bully- 
Grenay,  that  is,  not  often.  Once  in  a  while 
they  would  lob  one  in  just  to  let  the  people 
know  they  were  not  forgotten. 

There  was  a  suspicion  that  there  were  spies 


40    A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS 

in  the  town  and  that  that  accounted  for  the 
Germans  laying  off,  but  whatever  was  the 
cause  the  place  was  safer  than  most  villages 
so  near  the  lines. 

Those  two  days  in  repose  at  Bully-Grenay 
were  a  good  deal  of  a  farce.  We  were  entirely 
"on  our  own",  it  is  true,  no  parade,  no  duty 
of  any  kind  —  but  the  quarters  —  oof  !  We 
were  billeted  in  the  cellars  of  the  battered- 
down  houses.  They  weren't  shell-proof.  That 
didn't  matter  much,  as  there  wasn't  any 
shelling,  but  there  might  have  been.  The 
cellars  were  dangerous  enough  without,  what 
with  tottering  walls  and  overhanging  chunks 
of  masonry. 

Moreover  they  were  a  long  way  from  water- 
proof. Imagine  trying  to  find  a  place  to  sleep 
in  an  old  ruin  half  full  of  rainwater.  The  dry 
places  were  piled  up  with  brick  and  mortar, 
but  we  managed  to  clean  up  some  half-shel- 
tered spots  for  "kip"  and  we  lived  through  it. 

The  worst  feature  of  these  billets  was  the 
rats.  They  were  the  biggest  I  ever  saw,  great, 
filthy,  evil-smelling,  grayish-red  fellows,  as 
big  as  a  good-sized  cat.     They  would  hop  out 


A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS    41 

of  the  walls  and  scuttle  across  your  face  with 
their  wet,  cold  feet,  and  it  was  enough  to  drive 
you  insane.  One  chap  in  our  party  had  a 
natural  horror  of  rats,  and  he  nearly  went 
crazy.  We  had  to  "kip"  with  our  greatcoats 
pulled  up  over  our  heads,  and  then  the  beggars 
would  go  down  and  nibble  at  our  boots. 

The  first  day  somebody  found  a  fox  terrier, 
evidently  lost  and  probably  the  pet  of  some 
officer.  We  weren't  allowed  to  carry  mas- 
cots, although  we  had  a  kitten  that  we  smug- 
gled along  for  a  long  time.  This  terrier  was  a 
well-bred  little  fellow,  and  we  grabbed  him. 
We  spent  a  good  part  of  both  mornings  digging 
out  rats  for  him  and  staged  some  of  the  grand- 
est fights  ever. 

Most  of  the  day  we  spent  at  a  little  esta- 
minet  across  the  way  from  our  so-called  billets. 
There  was  a  pretty  mademoiselle  there  who 
served  the  rotten  French  beer  and  vin  blanc, 
and  the  Tommies  tried  their  French  on  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  talked  Choctaw.  I 
speak  the  language  a  little  and  tried  to  monopo- 
lize the  lady,  and  did,  which  didn't  increase 
my  popularity  any. 


42    A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS 

"I  say,  Yank,"  some  one  would  call,  "don't 
be  a  blinkin'  'og.  Give  somebody  else  a 
chawnce." 

Whereupon  I  would  pursue  my  conquest  all 
the  more  ardently.  I  was  making  a  large  hit, 
as  I  thought,  when  in  came  an  officer.  After 
that  I  was  ignored,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the 
Tommies,  who  joshed  me  unmercifully.  They 
discovered  that  my  middle  name  was  Derby, 
and  they  christened  me  "Darby  the  Yank." 
Darby  I  remained  as  long  as  I  was  with 
them. 

Some  of  the  questions  the  men  asked  about 
the  States  were  certainly  funny.  One  chap 
asked  what  language  we  spoke  over  here.  I 
thought  he  was  spoofing,  but  he  actually  meant 
it.  He  thought  we  spoke  something  like  Ital- 
ian, he  said.  I  couldn't  resist  the  temptation, 
and  filled  him  up  with  a  line  of  ghost  stories 
about  wild  Indians  just  outside  Boston.  I 
told  him  I  left  because  of  a  raid  in  which  the 
redskins  scalped  people  on  Boston  Common. 
After  that  he  used  to  pester  the  life  out  of  me 
for  Wild  West  yarns  with  the  scenes  laid  in 
New  England. 


A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS    43 

One  chap  was  amazed  and,  I  think,  a  httle 
incredulous  because  I  didn't  know  a  man  named 
Fisk  in  Des  Moines. 

We  went  back  to  the  trenches  again  and  were 
there  five  days.  I  was  out  one  night  on  barbed 
wire  work,  which  is  dangerous  at  any  time, 
and  was  especially  so  with  Fritz  in  his  condi- 
tion of  jumpy  nerves.  You  have  to  do  most 
of  the  work  lying  on  your  back  in  the  mud, 
and  if  you  jingle  the  wire,  Fritz  traverses  No 
Man's  Land  with  his  rapid-firers  with  a  fair 
chance  of  bagging  something. 

I  also  had  one  night  on  patrol,  which  later 
became  my  favorite  game.  I  will  tell  more 
about  it  in  another  chapter. 

At  the  end  of  the  five  days  the  whole  battal- 
ion was  pulled  out  for  rest.  We  marched  a 
few  miles  to  the  rear  and  came  to  the  village 
of  Petite-Saens.  This  town  had  been  fought 
through,  but  for  some  reason  had  suffered  little. 
Few  of  the  houses  had  been  damaged,  and  we 
had  real  billets. 

My  section,  ten  men  besides  myself,  drew  a 
big  attic  in  a  clean  house.  There  was  loads  of 
room  and  the  roof  was  tight  and  there  were 


44    A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS 

no  rats.  It  was  oriental  luxury  after  Bully- 
Grenay  and  the  trenches,  and  for  a  wonder 
nobody  had  a  word  of  "grousing"  over  "kip- 
ping" on  the  bare  floor. 

The  house  was  occupied  by  a  very  old  peas- 
ant woman  and  a  very  little  girl,  three  years 
old,  and  as  pretty  as  a  picture.  The  old  woman 
looked  ill  and  sad  and  very  lonesome.  One 
night  as  we  sat  in  her  kitchen  drinking  black 
coffee  and  cognac,  I  persuaded  her  to  tell  her 
story.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  rather  a  cruel 
thing  to  ask,  I  am  afraid.  It  is  only  one  of 
many  such  that  I  heard  over  there.  France 
has,  indeed,  suffered.  I  set  down  here,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  translate,  what  the  old  woman 
said : 

"Monsieur,  I  am  very,  very  old  now,  al- 
most eighty,  but  I  am  a  patriot  and  I  love  my 
France.  I  do  not  complain  that  I  have  lost 
everything  in  this  war.  I  do  not  care  now,  for 
I  am  old  and  it  is  for  my  country ;  but  there 
is  much  sadness  for  me  to  remember,  and  it  is 
with  great  bitterness  that  I  think  of  the  pig 
Allemand  —  beast  that  he  is. 

"Two  years  ago  I  lived  in  this  house,  happy 


A  FEW   DAYS'   REST  IN  BILLETS    45 

with  my  daughter  and  her  husband  and  the 
little  baby,  and  my  husband,  who  worked  in 
the  mines.  He  was  too  old  to  fight,  but  when 
the  great  war  came  he  tried  to  enlist,  but  they 
would  not  listen  to  him,  and  he  returned  to 
work,  that  the  country  should  not  be  without 
coal. 

"The  beau-fils  (son-in-law),  he  enlisted  and 
said  good-by  and  went  to  the  service. 

"By  and  by  the  Boche  come  and  in  a  great 
battle  not  far  from  this  very  house  the  beau-fils 
is  wounded  very  badly  and  is  brought  to  the 
house  by  comrades  to  die. 

"The  Boche  come  into  the  village,  but 
the  beau-fils  is  too  weak  to  go.  The  Boche 
come  into  the  house,  seize  my  daughter,  and 
there  —  they  —  oh,  monsieur  —  the  things  one 
may  not  say  —  and  we  so  helpless. 

"Her  father  tries  to  protect  her,  but  he  is 
knocked  down.  I  try,  but  they  hold  my  feet 
over  the  fire  until  the  very  flesh  cooks.  See 
for  yourselves  the  burns  on  my  feet  still. 

"My  husband  dies  from  the  blow  he  gets, 
for  he  is  very  old,  over  ninety.  Just  then  mon 
beau-fils   sees   a   revolver   that   hangs   by   the 


46    A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  ES^  BILLETS 

side  of  the  German  officer,  and  putting  all 
his  strength  together  he  leaps  forward  and 
grabs  the  revolver.  And  there  he  shoots  the 
officer  —  and  my  poor  little  daughter  —  and 
then  he  says  good-by  and  through  the  head 
sends  a  bullet. 

"'The  Germans  did  not  touch  me  but  once 
after  that,  and  then  they  knocked  me  to  the 
floor  when  they  came  after  the  pig  officer. 
Bv  and  bv  come  vou  English,  and  all  is  well 
for  dear  France  once  more ;  but  I  am  very 
desolate  now.  I  am  alone  but  for  the  petite- 
fille  vgranddaughter),  but  I  love  the  EngHsh, 
for  thev  save  mv  home  and  mv  dear  countrv." 

I  heard  a  good  many  stories  of  this  kind  off 
and  on,  but  this  particular  one,  I  think,  brought 
home,  to  me  at  least,  the  general  beastliness  of 
the  Hun  closer  than  ever  before,  We  all  loved 
our  little  kiddie  verv  much,  and  when  we  saw 
the  e^'idence  of  the  terrible  cruelties  the  poor 
old  woman  had  suffered  we  saw  red.  Most 
of  us  cried  a  Httle.  I  think  that  that  one  storv 
made  each  of  us  that  heard  it  a  mean,  \'icious 
fighter  tor  the  rest  of  our  service.  I  know  it 
did  me. 


A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS    47 

One  of  the  first  things  a  British  soldier  learns 
is  to  keep  himself  clean.  He  can't  do  it,  and 
he's  as  filthy  as  a  pig  all  the  time  he  is  in  the 
trenches,  but  he  tries.  He  is  always  shaving, 
even  under  fire,  and  show  him  running  water 
and  he  goes  to  it  like  a  duck. 

More  than  once  I  have  shaved  in  a  periscope 
mirror  pegged  into  the  side  of  a  trench,  with 
the  bullets  snapping  overhead,  and  rubbed  my 
face  with  wet  tea  leaves  afterward  to  freshen 
up. 

Back  in  billets  the  very  first  thing  that 
comes  off  is  the  big  clean-up.  Uniforms  are 
brushed  up,  and  equipment  put  in  order. 
Then  comes  the  bath,  the  most  thorough  pos- 
sible under  the  conditions.  After  that  comes 
the  "cootie  carnival",  better  known  as  the 
"shirt  hunt."  The  cootie  is  the  soldier's 
worst  enemy.  He's  worse  than  the  Hun.  You 
can't  get  rid  of  him  wherever  you  are,  in  the 
trenches  or  in  billets,  and  he  sticks  closer  than 
a  brother.  The  cootie  is  a  good  deal  of  an  acro- 
bat. His  policy  of  attack  is  to  hang  on  to  the 
shirt  and  to  nibble  at  the  occupant.  Pull 
off  the  shirt  and  he  comes  with  it.     Hence  the 


48    A  FEW  DAYS'   REST  IN  BILLETS 

shirt  hunt.  Tommy  gets  out  in  the  open  some- 
where so  as  not  to  shed  his  little  companions 
indoors  —  there's  always  enough  there  any- 
how —  and  he  peels.  Then  he  systematically 
runs  down  each  seam  —  the  cootie's  favorite 
hiding  place  —  catches  the  game,  and  ends  his 
career  by  cracking  him  between  the  thumb 
nails. 

For  some  obscure  psychological  reason. 
Tommy  seems  to  like  company  on  one  of  these 
hunts.  Perhaps  it  is  because  misery  loves  com- 
pany, or  it  may  be  that  he  likes  to  compare  notes 
on  the  catch.  Anyhow,  it  is  a  commoi  thing 
to  see  from  a  dozen  to  twenty  soldiers  with 
their  shirts  off,  hunting  cooties. 

"Hi  sye,  'Arry,"  you'll  hear  some  one  sing 
out.  "Look  'ere.  Strike  me  bloomin'  well 
pink  but  this  one  'ere's  got  a  black  stripe  along 
'is  back." 

Or,  "If  this  don't  look  like  the  one  I  showed 
ye  'fore  we  went  into  the  blinkin'  line.  'Ow'd 
'e  git  loose?" 

And  then,  as  likely  as  not,  a  little  farther 
away,  behind  the  officers'  quarters,  you'll 
hear  one  say : 


A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS    49 

"I  say,  old  chap,  it's  deucedly  peculiar  I 
should  have  so  many  of  the  beastly  things 
after  putting  on  the  Harrisons  mothaw  sent 
in  the  lawst  parcel." 

The  cootie  isn't  at  all  fastidious^  He 
will  bite  the  British  aristocrat  as  soon  as 
anybody  else.  He  finds  his  way  into  all 
branches  of  the  service,  and  I  have  even 
seen  a  dignified  colonel  wiggle  his  shoulders 
anxiously. 

Some  of  the  cootie  stories  have  become  clas- 
sical, like  this  one  which  was  told  from  the 
North  Sea  to  the  Swiss  border.  It  might  have 
happened  at  that. 

A  soldier  was  going  over  the  top  when  one 
of  his  cootie  friends  bit  him  on  the  calf.  The 
soldier  reached  down  and  captured  the  biter. 
Just  as  he  stooped,  a  shell  whizzed  over  where 
his  head  would  have  been  if  he  had  not  gone 
after  the  cootie.  Holding  the  captive  between 
thumb  and  finger,  he  said : 

"Old  feller,  I  cawn't  give  yer  the  Victoria 
Cross  —  but  I  can  put  yer  back." 

And  he  did. 

The  worst  thing  about  the  cootie  is  that  there 


50    A  FEW  DAYS'  REST  IN  BILLETS 

is  no  remedy  for  him.  The  shirt  hunt  is  the 
only  effective  way  for  the  soldier  to  get  rid  of 
his  bosom  friends.  The  various  dopes  and 
patent  preparations  guaranteed  as  "good  for 
cooties"  are  just  that.  They  give  'em  an 
appetite. 


CHAPTER  V 

Feeding  the  Tommies 

TT^OOD  is  a  burning  issue  in  the  lives  of  all 
of  us.  It  is  the  main  consideration  with 
the  soldier.  His  life  is  simplified  to  two  prin- 
cipal motives,  i.e.,  keeping  alive  himself  and 
killing  the  other  fellow.  The  question  upper- 
most in  his  mind  every  time  and  all  of  the 
time,  is,  "When  do  we  eat.^*" 

In  the  trenches  the  backbone  of  Tommy's  diet 
is  bully  beef,  "  Maconochie's  Ration  ",  cheese, 
bread  or  biscuit,  jam,  and  tea.  He  may  get 
some  of  this  hot  or  he  may  eat  it  from  the  tin, 
all  depending  upon  how  badly  Fritz  is  behaving. 

In  billets  the  diet  is  more  varied.  Here  he 
gets  some  fresh  meat,  lots  of  bacon,  and  the 
bully  and  the  Maconochie's  come  along  in  the 
form  of  stew.  Also  there  is  fresh  bread  and 
some  dried  fruit  and  a  certain  amount  of  sweet 
stufiF. 

It  was  this  matter  of  grub  that  made  my  life 


52         FEEDING   THE   TOMMIES 

a  burden  in  the  billets  at  Petite-Saens.  I  had 
been  rather  proud  of  being  lance  corporal.  It 
was,  to  me,  the  first  step  along  the  road  to  being 
field  marshal.  I  found,  however,  that  a  cor- 
poral is  high  enough  to  take  responsibility  and 
to  get  bawled  out  for  anything  that  goes  wrong. 
He's  not  high  enough  to  command  any  consid- 
eration from  those  higher  up,  and  he  is  so  close 
to  the  men  that  they  take  out  their  grievances 
on  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  is  neither 
fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl,  and  his  life  is  a  burden. 

I  had  the  job  of  issuing  the  rations  of  our 
platoon,  and  it  nearly  drove  me  mad.  Every 
morning  I  would  detail  a  couple  of  men  from 
our  platoon  to  be  standing  mess  orderlies  for 
the  day.  They  would  fetch  the  char  and  bacon 
from  the  field  kitchen  in  the  morning  and  clean 
up  the  "  dixies  "  after  breakfast.  The  "  dixie  ",  by 
the  way,  is  an  iron  box  or  pot,  oblong  in  shape, 
capacity  about  four  or  five  gallons.  It  fits 
into  the  field  kitchen  and  is  used  for  roasts, 
stews,  char,  or  anything  else.  The  cover  serves 
to  cook  bacon  in. 

Field  kitchens  are  drawn  by  horses  and  fol- 
low the  battalion  everywhere  that  it  is  safe  to 


FEEDING  THE   TOMMIES         53 

go,  and  to  some  places  where  it  isn't.  Two  men 
are  detailed  from  each  company  to  cook,  and 
there  is  usually  another  man  who  gets  the  ser- 
geants' mess,  besides  the  officers'  cook,  who 
does  not  as  a  rule  use  the  field  kitchen,  but  pre- 
pares the  food  in  the  house  taken  as  the  officers' 
mess. 

As  far  as  possible,  the  company  cooks  are  men 
who  were  cooks  in  civil  life,  but  not  always. 
We  drew  a  plumber  and  a  navvy  (road  builder) 
—  and  the  grub  tasted  of  both  trades.  The 
way  our  company  worked  the  kitchen  problem 
was  to  have  stew  for  two  platoons  one  day  and 
roast  dinner  for  the  others,  and  then  reverse 
the  order  next  day,  so  that  we  didn't  have 
stew  all  the  time.  There  were  not  enough 
"  dixies  "  for  us  all  to  have  stew  the  same  day. 

Every  afternoon  I  would  take  my  mess  or- 
derlies and  go  to  the  quartermaster's  stores  and 
get  our  allowance  and  carry  it  back  to  the  bil- 
lets in  waterproof  sheets.  Then  the  stuff  that 
was  to  be  cooked  in  the  kitchen  went  there, 
and  the  bread  and  that  sort  of  material  was 
issued  direct  to  the  men.  That  was  where 
my  trouble  started. 


54         FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES 

The  powers  that  were  had  an  uncanny  knack 
of  issuing  an  odd  number  of  articles  to  go 
among  an  even  number  of  men,  and  vice  versa. 
There  would  be  eleven  loaves  of  bread  to  go 
to  a  platoon  of  fifty  men  divided  into  four  sec- 
tions. Some  of  the  sections  would  have  ten 
men  and  some  twelve  or  thirteen. 

The  British  Tommy  is  a  scrapper  when  it 
comes  to  his  rations.  He  reminds  me  of  an 
English  sparrow.  He's  always  right  in  there 
wangling  for  his  own.  He  will  bully  and  brow- 
beat if  he  can,  and  he  will  coax  and  cajole  if 
he  can't.  It  would  be  "Hi  sye,  corporal. 
They's  ten  men  in  Number  2  section  and  four- 
teen in  ourn.  An'  bhmme  if  you  hain't  guv 
'em  four  loaves,  same  as  ourn.  Is  it  right, 
larsksyer.f^     Is  it?"     Or, 

"Lookee !  Do  yer  call  that  a  loaf  o'  bread? 
Looks  like  the  A.  S.  C.  (Army  Service  Corps) 
been  using  it  fer  a  piller.  Gimme  another, 
will  yer,  corporal?" 

When  it  comes  to  splitting  seven  onions  nine 
ways,  I  defy  any  one  to  keep  peace  in  the 
family,  and  every  doggoned  Tommy  would 
hold  out  for  his  onion  whether  he  liked  'em  or 


FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES         55 

not.  Same  way  with  a  bottle  of  pickles  to 
go  among  eleven  men  or  a  handful  of  raisins 
or  apricots.  .  Or  jam  or  butter  or  anything, 
except  bully  beef  or  Maconochie.  I  never 
heard  any  one  "argue  the  toss"  on  either  of 
those  commodities. 

Bully  is  high-grade  corned  beef  in  cans 
and  is  O.  K.  if  you  like  it,  but  it  does  get 
tiresome. 

Maconochie  ration  is  put  up  a  pound  to  the 
can  and  bears  a  label  v»hich  assures  the  con- 
sumer that  it  is  a  scientifically  prepared,  well- 
balanced  ration.  Maybe  so.  It  is  my  personal 
opinion  that  the  inventor  brought  to  his  task 
an  imperfect  knovvledge  of  cookery  and  a  per- 
verted imagination.  Open  a  can  of  Macon- 
ochie and  you  find  a  gooey  gob  of  grease,  like 
rancid  lard.  Investigate  and  you  find  chunks 
of  carrot  and  other  unidentifiable  material, 
and  now  and  then  a  bit  of  mysterious  meat. 
The  first  man  who  ate  an  oyster  had  courage, 
but  the  last  man  who  ate  Maconochie's 
unheated  had  more.  Tommy  regards  it  as 
a  very  inferior  grade  of  garbage.  The  label 
notwithstanding,  he's  right. 


56         FEEDING  THE   TOMMIES 

Many  people  have  asked  me  what  to  send  our 
soldiers  in  the  line  of  food.  I'd  say  stick  to 
sweets.  Cookies  of  any  durable  kind  —  I 
mean  that  will  stand  chance  moisture  —  the 
sweeter  the  better,  and  if  possible  those  con- 
taining raisins  or  dried  fruit.  Figs,  dates, 
etc.,  are  good.  And,  of  course,  chocolate. 
Personally,  I  never  did  have  enough  chocolate. 
Candy  is  acceptable,  if  it  is  of  the  sort  to  stand 
more  or  less  rough  usage  which  it  may  get 
before  it  reaches  the  soldier.  Chewing  gum  is 
always  received  gladly.  The  army  issue  of 
sweets  is  limited  pretty  much  to  jam,  which 
gets  to  taste  all  alike. 

It  is  pathetic  to  see  some  of  the  messes 
Tommy  gets  together  to  fill  his  craving  for 
dessert.  The  favorite  is  a  slum  composed  of 
biscuit,  water,  condensed  milk,  raisins,  and 
chocolate.  If  some  of  you  folks  at  home 
would  get  one  look  at  that  concoction,  let 
alone  tasting  it,  you  would  dash  out  and  spend 
your  last  dollar  for  a  package  to  send  to  some 
lad  "over  there." 

After  the  excitement  of  dodging  shells  and 
bullets  in  the  front  trenches,  life  in  billets  seems 


Q 

o 

o 
o 


FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES         57 

dull.  Tommy  has  too  much  time  to  get  into 
mischief.  It  was  at  Petite-Saens  that  I  first 
saw  the  Divisional  Folies.  This  was  a  vaude- 
ville show  by  ten  men  who  had  been  actors 
in  civil  life,  and  who  were  detailed  to  amuse 
the  soldiers.  They  charged  a  small  admission 
fee  and  the  profit  went  to  the  Red  Cross. 

There  ought  to  be  more  recreation  for  the 
soldiers  of  all  armies.  The  Y.  M.  C.  A.  is  to 
take  care  of  that  with  our  boys. 

By  the  way,  we  had  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut  at 
Petite-Saens,  and  I  cannot  say  enough  for  this 
great  work.  No  one  who  has  not  been  there 
can  know  what  a  blessing  it  is  to  be  able  to  go 
into  a  clean,  warm,  dry  place  and  sit  down  to 
reading  or  games  and  to  hear  good  music.  Per- 
sonally I  am  a  little  bit  sorry  that  the  secretaries 
are  to  be  in  khaki.  They  weren't  when  I  left. 
And  it  sure  did  seem  good  to  see  a  man  in  civil- 
ian's clothes.  You  get  after  a  while  so  you 
hate  the  sight  of  a  uniform. 

Another  thing  about  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  I  could 
wish  that  they  would  have  more  women  in  the 
huts.  Not  frilly,  frivolous  society  girls,  but 
women    from    thirty-five    to    fifty.     A    soldier 


58         FEEDING  THE   TOMMIES 

likes  kisses  as  well  as  the  next.  And  he  takes 
them  when  he  finds  them.  And  he  finds  too 
many.  But  what  he  really  wants,  though, 
is  the  chance  to  sit  down  and  tell  his  troubles 
to  some  nice,  sympathetic  woman  who  is  old 
enough  to  be  level-headed. 

Nearly  every  soldier  reverts  more  or  less  to 
a  boyish  point  of  view.  He  hankers  for  some- 
body to  mother  him.  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
many  women  of  that  type  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
work.  It  is  one  of  the  great  needs  of  our  army 
that  the  boys  should  be  amused  and  kept  clean 
mentally  and  morally.  I  don't  believe  there  is 
any  organization  better  qualified  to  do  this 
than  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

Most  of  our  chaps  spent  their  time  "on  their 
ov/n"  either  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut  or  in  the 
estaminets  while  we  were  in  Petite-Saens.  Our 
stop  there  was  hardly  typical  of  the  rest  in 
billets.  Usually  "rest"  means  that  you  are 
set  to  mending  roads  or  some  such  fatigue 
duty.  At  Petite-Saens,  however,  we  had  it 
"cushy." 

The  routine  was  about  like  this  :  Up  at  6  :  30, 
we  fell  in  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  physical 


FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES         59 

drill  or  bayonet  practice.  Breakfast.  Inspec- 
tion of  ammo  and  gas  masks.  One  hour  drill. 
After  that,  "on  our  own",  with  nothing  to  do 
but  smoke,  read,  and  gamble. 

Tommy  is  a  great  smoker.  He  gets  a  fag 
issue  from  the  government,  if  he  is  lucky,  of 
two  packets  or  twenty  a  week.  This  lasts 
him  with  care  about  two  days.  After  that  he 
goes  smokeless  unless  he  has  friends  at  home  to 
send  him  a  supply.  I  had  friends  in  London 
who  sent  me  about  five  hundred  fags  a  week, 
and  I  was  consequently  popular  while  they 
lasted.  This  took  off  some  of  the  curse  of 
being  a  lance  corporal. 

Tommy  has  his  favorite  in  "fags"  like  any- 
body else.  He  likes  above  all  Wild  Wood- 
bines. This  cigarette  is  composed  of  glue, 
cheap  paper,  and  a  poor  quality  of  hay.  Next 
in  his  affection  comes  Goldflakes  —  pretty  near 
as  bad. 

People  over  here  who  have  boys  at  the  front 
mustn't  forget  the  cigarette  supply.  Send  them 
along  early  and  often.  There'll  never  be  too 
many.  Smoking  is  one  of  the  soldier's  few 
comforts.     Two  bits'  worth  of  makin's  a  week 


60         FEEDING   THE   TOMMIES 

will  help  one  lad  make  life  endurable.  It's 
cheap  at  the  price.  Come  through  for  the 
smoke  fund  whenever  you  get  the  chance. 

Cafe  life  among  us  at  Petite-Saens  was 
mostly  drinking  and  gambling.  That  is  not 
half  as  bad  as  it  sounds.  The  drinking  was 
mostly  confined  to  the  slushy  French  beer  and 
vin  blanc  and  citron.  Whiskey  and  absinthe 
were  barred. 

The  gambling  was  on  a  small  scale,  neces- 
sarily, the  British  soldier  not  being  at  any  time 
a  bloated  plutocrat.  At  the  same  time  the 
games  were  continuous.  "House"  was  the 
most  popular.  This  is  a  game  similar  to  the 
*' lotto"  we  used  to  play  as  children.  The 
backers  distribute  cards  having  fifteen  num- 
bers, forming  what  they  call  a  school.  Then 
numbered  cardboard  squares  are  drawn  from 
a  bag,  the  numbers  being  called  out.  When  a 
number  comes  out  which  appears  on  your  card, 
you  cover  it  with  a  bit  of  match.  If  you  get 
all  your  numbers  covered,  you  call  out  "house", 
winning  the  pot.  If  there  are  ten  people 
in  at  a  franc  a  head,  the  banker  holds  out  two 
francs,  and  the  winner  gets  eight. 


FEEDING  THE   TOMMIES         61 

It  is  really  quite  exciting,  as  you  may  get  all 
but  one  number  covered  and  be  rooting  for  a 
certain  number  to  come.  Usually  when  you 
get  as  close  as  that  and  sweat  over  a  number 
for  ten  minutes,  somebody  else  gets  his  first. 
Corporal  Wells  described  the  game  as  one  where 
the  winner  "'oilers  'ouse  and  the  rest  'oilers 
'ell!" 

Some  of  the  nicknames  for  the  different 
numbers  remind  one  of  the  slang  of  the  crap 
shooter.  For  instance,  "Kelly's  eye"  means 
one.  "Clickety  click"  is  sixty-six.  "Top  of 
the  house"  is  ninety.  Other  games  are  "crown 
and  anchor",  which  is  a  dice  game,  and  "pon- 
toon", which  is  a  card  game  similar  to  "twenty- 
one"  or  "seven  and  a  half."  Most  of  these  are 
mildly  discouraged  by  the  authorities,  "house" 
being  the  exception.  But  in  any  estaminet 
in  a  billet  town  you'll  find  one  or  all  of  them  in 
progress  all  the  time.  The  winner  usually 
spends  his  winnings  for  beer,  so  the  money 
all  goes  the  same  way,  game  or  no  game. 

When  there  are  no  games  on,  there  is  usually 
a  sing-song  going.  We  had  a  merry  young 
nuisance  in  our  platoon  named  Rolfe,  who  had 


62         FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES 

a  voice  like  a  frog  and  who  used  to  insist  upon 
singing  on  all  occasions.  Rolfie  would  climb 
on  the  table  in  the  estaminet  and  sing  numer- 
ous unprintable  verses  of  his  own,  entitled 
"Oh,  What  a  Merry  Plyce  is  Hengland." 
The  only  redeeming  feature  of  this  song  was 
the  chorus,  which  everybody  would  roar  out 
and  which  went  like  this  : 

Cheer,  ye  beggars,  cheer  ! 

Britannia  rules  the  wave  ! 

'Ard  times,  short  times 

Never'll  come  agyne. 

Shoutin'  out  at  th'  top  o'  yer  lungs : 

Damn  the  German  army  ! 

Oh,  wot  a  lovely  plyce  is  Hengland ! 

Our  ten  days  en  repos  at  Petite-Saens  came 
to  an  end  all  too  soon. 

On  the  last  day  we  lined  up  for  our  official 
"bawth." 

Petite-Saens  was  a  coal-mining  town.  The 
mines  were  still  operated,  but  only  at  night  — 
this  to  avoid  shelling  from  the  Boche  long-dis- 
tance artillery,  which  are  fully  capable  of  send- 
ing shells  and  hitting  the  mark  at  eighteen 
miles.  The  water  system  of  the  town  depended 
upon   the  pumping   apparatus   of   the   mines. 


FEEDING  THE  TOMMIES         63 

Every  morning  early,  before  the  pressure  was 
off,  all  hands  would  turn  out  for  a  general 
''sluicing"  under  the  hydrants.  We  were  as 
clean  as  could  be  and  fairly  free  of  "cooties" 
at  the  end  of  a  week,  but  official  red  tape  de- 
manded that  we  go  through  an  authorized 
scouring. 

On  the  last  day  we  lined  up  for  this  at  dawn 
before  an  old  warehouse  which  had  been  fitted 
with  crude  showers.  We  were  turned  in  twenty 
in  a  batch  and  were  given  four  minutes  to  soap 
ourselves  all  over  and  rinse  off.  I  was  in  the 
last  lot  and  had  just  lathered  up  good  and 
plenty  when  the  water  went  dead.  If  you 
want  to  reach  the  acme  of  stickiness,  try  this 
stunt.  I  felt  like  the  inside  of  a  mucilage  bot- 
tle for  a  week. 

After  the  official  purification  we  were  given 
clean  underwear.  And  then  there  was  a  howl. 
The  fresh  underthings  had  been  boiled  and 
sterilized,  but  the  immortal  cootie  had  come 
through  unscathed  and  in  all  its  vigor.  Cor- 
poral Wells  raised  a  pathetic  wail : 

"Blimme  eyes,  mytie !  I  got  more'n  two 
'undred  now  an'  this  supposed  to  be  a  bloom- 


64         FEEDING   THE  TOMMIES 

in'  clean  shirt !  Why,  the  bhnkin'  thing's  as 
lousy  as  a  cookoo  now,  an  me  just  a-gittin' 
rid  o'  the  bloomin'  chats  on  me  old  un.  Strike 
me  pink  if  it  hain't  a  bleedin'  crime !  Some 
one  ought  to  write  to  John  Bull  abaht  it ! " 

John  Bull  is  the  English  paper  of  that  name 
published  by  Horatio  Bottomley,  which  makes 
a  specialty  of  publishing  complaints  from  sol- 
diers and  generally  criticising  the  conduct  of 
army  affairs. 

Well,  we  got  through  the  bath  and  the  next 
day  were  on  our  way.  This  time  it  was  up  the 
line  <to  another  sector.  My  one  taste  of  trench 
action  had  made  me  keen  for  more  excitement, 
and  in  spite  of  the  comfortable  time  at  Petite- 
Saens,  I  was  glad  to  go.  I  was  yet  to  know  the 
real  horrors  and  hardships  of  modern  warfare. 
There  were  many  days  in  those  to  come  when 
I  looked  back  upon  Petite-Saens  as  a  sort  of 
heaven. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Hiking  to  Vimy  Ridge 

'1^7'E  left  Petite-Saens  about  nine  o'clock 
Friday  night  and  commenced  our  march 
for  what  we  were  told  would  be  a  short  hike. 
It  was  pretty  warm  and  muggy.  There  was 
a  thin,  low-lying  mist  over  everything,  but 
clear  enough  above,  and  there  was  a  kind  of 
poor  moonlight.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
delay  in  getting  away,  and  we  had  begun  to 
sweat  before  we  started,  as  we  were  equipped 
as  usual  with  about  eighty  pounds'  weight  on 
the  back  and  shoulders.  That  eighty  pounds 
is  theoretical  weight. 

As  a  matter  of  practice  the  pack  nearly 
always  runs  ten  and  even  twenty  pounds  over 
the  official  equipment,  as  Tommy  is  a  great 
little  accumulator  of  junk.  I  had  acquired 
the  souvenir  craze  early  in  the  game,  and 
was  toting  excess  baggage  in  the  form  of  a 
Boche  helmet,  a  mess  of  shell  noses,   and   a 


66        HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE 

smashed  German  automatic.  All  this  ran  to 
weight. 

I  carried  a  lot  of  this  kind  of  stuff  all  the 
time  I  was  in  the  service,  and  was  constantly 
thinning  out  my  collection  or  adding  to  it. 

When  you  consider  that  a  soldier  has  to 
carry  everything  he  owns  on  his  person,  you'd 
say  that  he  would  want  to  fly  light;  but  he 
doesn't.  And  that  reminds  me,  before  I  forget 
it,  I  want  to  say  something  about  sending  boxes 
over  there. 

It  is  the  policy  of  the  British,  and,  I  sup- 
pose, will  be  of  the  Americans,  to  move  the 
troops  about  a  good  deal.  This  is  done  so 
that  no  one  unit  will  become  too  much  at  home 
in  any  one  line  of  trenches  and  so  get  careless. 
This  moving  about  involves  a  good  deal  of 
hiking. 

Now  if  some  chap  happens  to  get  a  twenty- 
pound  box  of  good  things  just  before  he  is 
shifted,  he's  going  to  be  in  an  embarrassing 
position.  He'll  have  to  give  it  away  or  leave 
it.  So  —  send  the  boxes  two  or  three  pounds 
at  a  time,  and  often. 

But  to  get  back  to  Petite-Saens.    We  com- 


HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE        67 

menced  our  hike  as  it  is  was  getting  dark.  As 
we  swung  out  along  the  once  good  but  now 
badly  furrowed  French  road,  we  could  see  the 
Very  lights  beginning  to  go  up  far  ofiF  to  the 
left,  showing  where  the  lines  were.  We  could 
distinguish  between  our  own  star  lights  and 
the  German  by  the  intensity  of  the  flare,  theirs 
being  much  superior  to  ours,  so  much  so  that 
they  send  them  up  from  the  second-line 
trenches. 

The  sound  of  the  guns  became  more  distant 
as  we  swung  away  to  the  south  and  louder 
again  as  the  road  twisted  back  toward  the 
front. 

We  began  to  sing  the  usual  songs  of  the 
march  and  I  noticed  that  the  American  rag- 
time was  more  popular  among  the  boys  than 
their  own  music.  "Dixie"  frequently  figured 
in  these  songs. 

It  is  always  a  good  deal  easier  to  march 
when  the  men  sing,  as  it  helps  to  keep  time  and 
puts  pep  into  a  column  and  makes  the  packs 
seem  lighter.  The  officers  see  to  it  that  the 
mouth  organs  get  tuned  up  the  minute  a  hike 
begins. 


68        HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE 

At  the  end  of  each  hour  we  came  to  a  halt 
for  the  regulation  ten  minutes'  rest.  Troops  in 
heavy  marching  order  move  very  slowly,  even 
with  the  music  —  and  the  hours  drag.  The  ten 
minutes'  rest  though  goes  like  a  flash.  The 
men  keep  an  eye  on  the  watches  and  "  wangle  " 
for  the  last  second. 

We  passed  through  two  ruined  villages  with 
the  battered  walls  sticking  up  like  broken  teeth 
and  the  gray  moonlight  shining  through  empty 
holes  that  had  been  windows.  The  people 
were  gone  from  these  places,  but  a  dog  howled 
over  yonder.  Several  times  we  passed  bat- 
teries of  French  artillery,  and  jokes  and  laughter 
came  out  of  the  half  darkness. 

Topping  a  little  rise,  the  moon  came  out 
bright,  and  away  ahead  the  silver  ribbon  of 
the  Souchez  gleamed  for  an  instant ;  the  bare 
poles  that  once  had  been  Bouvigny  Wood  were 
behind  us,  and  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  a  pul- 
verized ruin  where  houses  had  stood.  Blofeld 
told  me  this  was  what  was  left  of  the  village 
of  Abalaine,  which  had  been  demolished  some 
time  before  when  the  French  held  the  sector. 

At  this  point  guides  came  out  and  met  us 


HIKING   TO  VIMY  RIDGE         69 

to  conduct  us  to  the  trenches.  The  order 
went  down  the  Hne  to  fall  in,  single  file,  keep- 
ing touch,  no  smoking  and  no  talking,  and  I 
supposed  we  were  about  to  enter  a  communi- 
cation trench.  But  no.  We  swung  on  to  a 
"duck  walk."  This  is  a  slatted  wooden  walk 
built  to  prevent  as  much  as  possible  sinking 
into  the  mud.     The  ground  was  very  soft  here. 

I  never  did  know  why  there  was  no  com- 
munication trench  unless  it  was  because  the 
ground  was  so  full  of  moisture.  But  whatever 
the  reason,  there  was  none,  and  we  were  right 
out  in  the  open  on  the  duck  walk.  The  order 
for  no  talk  seemed  silly  as  we  clattered  along 
the  boards,  making  a  noise  like  a  four-horse 
team  on  a  covered  bridge. 

I  immediately  wondered  whether  we  were 
near  enough  for  the  Boches  to  hear.  I  wasn't 
in  doubt  long,  for  they  began  to  send  over  the 
"Berthas"  in  flocks.  The  "Bertha"  is  an 
uncommonly  ugly  breed  of  nine-inch  shell 
loaded  with  H.  E.  It  comes  sailing  over  with 
a  querulous  "squeeeeeee",  and  explodes  with 
an  ear-splitting  crash  and  a  burst  of  murky, 
dull-red  flame. 


70        HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE 

If  it  hits  you  fair,  you  disappear.  At  a 
little  distance  you  are  ripped  to  fragments, 
and  a  little  farther  off  you  get  a  case  of  shell- 
shock.  Just  at  the  edge  of  the  destructive 
area  the  wind  of  the  explosion  whistles  by  your 
ears,  and  then  sucks  back  more  slowly. 

The  Boches  had  the  range  of  that  duck  walk, 
and  we  began  to  run.  Every  now  and  then 
they  would  drop  one  near  the  walk,  and  from 
four  to  ten  casualties  would  go  down.  There 
was  no  stopping  for  the  wounded.  They  lay 
where  they  fell.  We  kept  on  the  run,  sometimes 
on  the  duck  walk,  sometimes  in  the  mud,  for 
three  miles.  I  had  reached  the  limit  of  my 
endurance  when  we  came  to  a  halt  and  rested 
for  a  little  while  at  the  foot  of  a  slight  incline. 
This  was  the  "Pimple",  so  called  on  account 
of  its  rounded  crest. 

The  Pimple  forms  a  part  of  the  well-known 
Vimy  Ridge  —  is  a  semi-detached  extension 
of  it  —  and  lies  between  it  and  the  Souchez 
sector.  After  a  rest  here  we  got  into  the 
trenches  skirting  the  Pimple  and  soon  came 
out  on  the  Quarries.  This  was  a  bowl-like 
depression   formed    by    an   old    quarry.     The 


HIKING  TO  VI:MY  RIDGE        71 

place  gave  a  natural  protection  and  all  around 
the  edge  were  dug-outs  which  had  been  built 
by  the  French,  running  back  into  the  hill, 
some  of  them  more  than  a  hundred  feet. 

In  the  darkness  we  could  see  braziers  glow- 
ing softly  red  at  the  mouth  of  each  burrow. 
There  was  a  cheerful,  mouth-watering  smell  of 
cookery  on  the  air,  a  garlicky  smell,  with  now 
and  then  a  whiff  of  spicy  wood  smoke. 

We  were  hungry  and  thirsty,  as  well  as  tired, 
and  shed  our  packs  at  the  dug-outs  assigned  us 
and  went  at  the  grub  and  the  char  offered  us  by 
the  men  we  were  relieving,  the  Northumberland 
Fusiliers. 

The  dug-outs  here  in  the  Quarries  were  the 
worst  I  saw  in  France.  They  were  reasonably 
dry  and  roomy,  but  they  had  no  ventilation 
except  the  tunnel  entrance,  and  going  back 
so  far  the  air  inside  became  simply  stifling  in 
a  very  short  time. 

I  took  one  inhale  of  the  interior  atmosphere 
and  decided  right  there  that  I  would  bivouac 
in  the  open.  It  was  just  getting  down  to 
"kip"  when  a  sentry  came  up  and  said  I  would 
have  to  get  inside.     It  seemed  that  Fritz  had 


72        HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE 

the  range  of  the  Quarries  to  an  inch  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  sending  over  "minnies"  at 
intervals  just  to  let  us  know  he  wasn't  asleep. 

I  had  got  settled  down  comfortably  and  was 
dozing  off  when  there  came  a  call  for  C  com- 
pany. I  got  the  men  from  my  platoon  out  as 
quickly  as  possible,  and  in  half  an  hour  we  were 
in  the  trenches. 

Number  10  platoon  was  assigned  to  the  cen- 
ter sector.  Number  11  to  the  left  sector,  and 
Number  12  to  the  right  sector.  Number  9 
remained  behind  in  supports  in  the  Quarries. 

Now  when  I  speak  of  these  various  sectors, 
I  mean  that  at  this  point  there  was  no  contin- 
uous line  of  front  trenches,  only  isolated 
stretches  of  trench  separated  by  intervals  of 
from  two  hundred  to  three  hundred  yards  of 
open  ground.  There  were  no  dug-outs.  It  was 
impossible  to  leave  these  trenches  except  under 
cover  of  darkness  —  or  to  get  to  them  or  to 
get  up  rations.  They  were  awful  holes.  Any 
raid  by  the  Germans  in  large  numbers  at  this 
time  would  have  wiped  us  out,  as  there  was 
no  means  of  retreating  or  getting  up  reinforce- 
ments. 


HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE        73 

The  Tommies  called  the  trenches  Grouse 
Spots.  It  was  a  good  name.  We  got  into 
them  in  the  dense  darkness  of  just  before 
dawn.  The  division  we  relieved  gave  us 
hardly  any  instruction,  but  beat  it  on  the  hot 
foot,  glad  to  get  away  and  anxious  to  go  be- 
fore sun-up.  As  we  settled  down  in  our  cosey 
danger  spots  I  heard  Rolfie,  the  frog-voiced 
baritone,  humming  one  of  his  favorite  coster 
songs : 

Oh,  why  did  I  leave  my  little  back  room  in  old 

Bloomsbury  ? 
Where  I  could  live  for  a  pound  a  week  in  luxury. 
I  wanted  to  live  higher 
So  I  married  Marier, 
Out  of  the  frying  pan  into  the  bloomin'  fire. 

And  he  meant  every  word  of  it. 

In  our  new  positions  in  the  Grouse  Spots 
the  orders  were  to  patrol  the  open  ground  be- 
tween at  least  four  times  a  night.  That  first 
night  there  was  one  more  patrol  necessary 
before  daylight.  Tired  as  I  was,  I  volunteered 
for  it.  I  had  had  one  patrol  before,  opposite 
Bully-Grenay,  and  thought  I  liked  the  game. 

I  went  over  with  one  man,  a  fellow  named 
Bellinger.     We  got  out  and  started  to  crawl. 


74        HIKING  TO  VIMY  RIDGE 

All  we  knew  was  that  the  left  sector  was  two 
hundred  yards  away.  Machine-gun  bullets 
were  squealing  and  snapping  overhead  pretty 
continuously,  and  we  had  to  hug  the  dirt.  It 
is  surprising  to  see  how  flat  a  man  can  keep 
and  still  get  along  at  a  good  rate  of  speed. 
We  kept  straight  away  to  the  left  and  pres- 
ently got  into  wire.  And  then  we  heard  Ger- 
man voices.     Ow  !  I  went  cold  all  over. 

Then  some  "Very"  lights  went  up  and  I 
saw  the  Boche  parapet  not  twenty  feet  away. 
Worst  of  all  there  was  a  little  lane  through 
their  wire  at  that  point,  and  there  would  be, 
no  doubt,  a  sap  head  or  a  listening  post  near. 
I  tried  to  lie  still  and  burrow  into  the  dirt 
at  the  same  time.  Nothing  happened.  Pres- 
ently the  lights  died,  and  Bellinger  gave  me 
a  poke  in  the  ribs.  We  started  to  crawfish. 
Why  we  weren't  seen  I  don't  know,  but  we 
had  gone  all  of  one  hundred  feet  before  they 
spotted  us.  Fortunately  we  were  on  the  edge 
of  a  shallow  shell  hole  when  the  sentry  caught 
our  movements  and  Fritz  cut  loose  with  the 
"typewriters."  We  rolled  in.  A  perfect  tor- 
rent of  bullets  ripped  up  the  dirt  and  cascaded 


HIKING   TO  VIMY  RIDGE        75 

us  with  gravel  and  mud.  The  noise  of  the 
bullets  "crackling"  a  yard  above  us  was 
deafening. 

The  fusillade  stopped  after  a  bit.  I  was  all 
for  getting  out  and  away  immediately.  Bel- 
linger wanted  to  wait  a  while.  We  argued  for 
as  much  as  five  minutes,  I  should  think,  and 
then  the  lights  having  gone  out,  I  took  matters 
in  my  own  hands  and  we  went  away  from  there. 
Another  piece  of  luck ! 

We  weren't  more  than  a  minute  on  our  way 
when  a  pair  of  bombs  went  off  about  over 
the  shell  hole.  Evidently  some  bold  Heinie 
had  chucked  them  over  to  make  sure  of  the 
job  in  case  the  machines  hadn't.  It  was  a 
close  pinch  —  two  close  pinches.  I  was  in 
places  afterwards  where  there  was  more  action 
and  more  danger,  but,  looking  back,  I  don't 
think  I  was  ever  sicker  or  scareder.  I  would 
have  been  easy  meat  if  they  had  rushed  us. 

We  made  our  way  back  slowly,  and  eventually 
caught  the  gleam  of  steel  helmets.  They  were 
British.  We  had  stumbled  upon  our  left 
sector.  We  found  out  then  that  the  line 
curved   and   that   instead   of   the   left   sector 


76         HIKING   TO   VIMY  RIDGE 

being  directly  to  the  left  of  ours  —  the  center 
—  it  was  to  the  left  and  to  the  rear.  Also 
there  was  a  telephone  wire  running  from  one 
to  the  other.  We  reported  and  made  our 
way  back  to  the  center  in  about  five  minutes 
by  feeling  along  the  wire.  That  was  our 
method  afterwards,  and  the  patrol  was  cushy 
for  us. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Fascination  of  Patrol  Work 

T  WANT  to   say   a   word   right    here   about 
patrol  work  in   general,  because  for  some 
reason  it  fascinated  me  and  was  my  favorite 
game. 

If  you  should  be  fortunate  —  or  unfortunate 
enough,  as  the  case  might  be  —  to  be  squat- 
ting in  a  front-line  trench  this  fine  morning 
and  looking  through  a  periscope,  you  wouldn't 
see  much.  Just  ov^er  the  top,  not  more  than 
twenty  feet  away,  would  be  your  barbed- 
wire  entanglements,  a  thick  network  of  wire 
stretched  on  iron  posts  nearly  waist  high,  and 
perhaps  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  across.  Then 
there  would  be  an  intervening  stretch  of 
from  fifty  to  one  hundred  fifty  yards  of  No 
Man's  Land,  a  tortured,  torn  expanse  of 
muddy  soil,  pitted  with  shell  craters,  and, 
over  beyond,  the  German  wire  and  his 
parapet. 


78    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

There  would  be  nothing  ahve  visible.  There 
would  probably  be  a  few  corpses  lying  about 
or  hanging  in  the  wire.  Everything  would  be 
still  except  for  the  flutter  of  some  rag  of  a 
dead  man's  uniform.  Perhaps  not  that.  Day- 
light movements  in  No  Man's  Land  are  some- 
how disconcerting.  Once  I  was  in  a  trench 
where  a  leg  —  a  booted  German  leg,  stuck 
up  stark  and  stiff  out  of  the  mud  not  twenty 
yards  in  front.  Some  idiotic  joker  on  patrol 
hung  a  helmet  on  the  foot,  and  all  the  next 
day  that  helmet  dangled  and  swung  in  the 
breeze.  It  irritated  the  periscope  watchers, 
and  the  next  night  it  was  taken  down. 

Ordinarily,  however,  there  is  little  move- 
ment between  the  wires,  nor  behind  them. 
And  yet  you  know  that  over  yonder  there  are 
thousands  of  men  lurking  in  the  trenches 
and  shelters. 

After  dark  these  men,  or  some  of  them,  crawl 
out  like  hunted  animals  and  prowl  in  the  black 
mystery  of  No  Man's  Land.  They  are  the 
patrol. 

The  patrol  goes  out  armed  and  equipped 
lightly.     He  has  to  move  softly  and  at  times 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    79 

very  quickly.  It  is  his  duty  to  get  as  close 
to  the  enemy  lines  as  possible  and  find  out  if 
they  are  repairing  their  wire  or  if  any  of  their 
parties  are  out,  and  to  get  back  word  to  the 
machine  gunners,  who  immediately  cut  loose 
on   the   indicated   spot. 

Sometimes  he  lies  with  his  head  to  the 
ground  over  some  suspected  area,  straining 
his  ears  for  the  faint  "scrape,  scrape"  that 
means  a  German  mining  party  is  down  there, 
getting  ready  to  plant  a  ton  or  so  of  high 
explosive,  or,  it  may  be,  is  preparing  to  touch 
it  off  at  that  very  moment. 

Always  the  patrol  is  supposed  to  avoid 
encounter  with  enemy  patrols.  He  carries 
two  or  three  Mills  bombs  and  a  pistol,  but 
not  for  use  except  in  extreme  emergency. 
Also  a  persuader  stick  or  a  trench  knife, 
which  he  may  use  if  he  is  near  enough  to 
do  it  silently. 

The  patrol  stares  constantly  through  the 
dark  and  gets  so  he  can  see  almost  as  well  as 
a  cat.  He  must  avoid  being  seen.  When  a 
Very  light  goes  up,  he  lies  still.  If  he  happens 
to   be   standing,   he   stands   still.     Unless   the 


80    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

light  is  behind  him  so  that  he  is  silhouetted,  he 
is  invisible  to  the  enemy. 

Approaching  a  corpse,  the  patrol  lies  quiet 
and  watches  it  for  several  minutes,  unless  it  is 
one  he  has  seen  before  and  is  acquainted  with. 
Because  sometimes  the  man  isn't  dead,  but  a 
perfectly  live  Boche  patrol  lying  "doggo." 
You  can't  be  too  careful. 

If  you  happen  to  be  pussyfooting  forward 
erect  and  encounter  a  German  patrol,  it  is 
policy  to  scuttle  back  unless  you  are  near 
enough  to  get  in  one  good  lick  with  the  per- 
suader. He  will  retreat  slowly  himself,  and 
you  mustn't  follow  him.  Because :  The  Brit- 
ish patrol  usually  goes  out  singly  or  at  the 
most  in  pairs  or  threes. 

The  Germans,  on  the  other  hand,  hunt  in 
parties.  One  man  leads.  Two  others  fol- 
low to  the  rear,  one  to  each  side.  And  then 
two  more,  and  two  more,  so  that  they  form  a 
V,  like  a  flock  of  geese.  Now  if  you  follow 
up  the  lead  man  when  he  retreats,  you  are 
baited  into  a  trap  and  find  yourself  surrounded, 
smothered  by  superior  numbers,  and  taken 
prisoner.     Then   back   to   the   Boche   trench, 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    81 

where  exceedingly  unpleasant  things  are  apt 
to  happen. 

It  is,  in  fact,  most  unwholesome  for  a  British 
patrol  to  be  captured.  I  recall  a  case  in 
point  which  I  witnessed  and  which  is  far 
enough  in  the  past  so  that  it  can  be  told.  It 
occurred,  not  at  Vimy  Ridge,  but  further  down 
the  line,  nearer  the  Somme. 

I  was  out  one  night  with  another  man,  prowl- 
ing in  the  dark,  when  I  encountered  a  Canadian 
sergeant  who  was  alone.  There  was  a  Canadian 
battalion  holding  the  next  trench  to  us,  and 
another  farther  down.  He  was  from  the  far- 
ther one.  We  lay  in  the  mud  and  compared 
notes.  Once,  when  a  light  floated  down  near 
us,  I  saw  his  face,  and  he  was  a  man  I  knew, 
though  not  by  name. 

After  a  while  we  separated,  and  he  went 
back,  as  he  was  considerably  off  his  patrol. 
An  hour  or  so  later  the  mist  began  to  get 
gray,  and  it  was  evident  that  dawn  was  near. 
I  was  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  down  from 
our  battalion,  and  my  man  and  I  made  for  the 
trenches  opposite  where  we  were.  As  we 
climbed  into  a  sap  head,  I  was  greeted  by  a 


82    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

Canadian  corporal.  He  invited  me  to  a  tin 
of  "char",  and  I  sent  my  man  up  the  line  to 
our  own  position. 

We  sat  on  the  fire  step  drinldng,  and  I  told 
the  corporal  about  meeting  the  sergeant  out 
in  front.  While  we  were  at  the  "char"  it 
kept  getting  lighter,  and  presently  a  pair  of 
Lewises  started  to  rattle  a  hundred  yards  or 
so  away  down  the  line.  Then  came  a  sudden 
commotion  and  a  kind  of  low,  growling  shout. 
That  is  the  best  way  I  can  describe  it.  We 
stood  up,  and  below  we  saw  men  going  over 
the  top. 

"What  the  dickens  can  this  be?"  stuttered 
the  corporal.  "There's  been  no  barrage. 
There's  no  orders  for  a  charge.  What  is  it? 
What  is  it?" 

Well,  there  they  were,  going  over,  as  many 
as  two  hundred  of  them  —  growling.  The 
corporal  and  I  climbed  out  of  the  trench  at 
the  rear,  over  the  parados,  and  ran  across  lots 
down  to  a  point  opposite  where  the  Canadians 
had  gone  over,  and  watched. 

They  swept  across  No  Man's  Land  and  into 
the  Boche  trench.     There  was  the  deuce  of 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    83 

a  ruckus  over  there  for  maybe  two  minutes, 
and  then  back  they  came  —  carrying  some- 
thing. Strangely  enough  there  had  been  no 
machine-gun  fire  turned  on  them  as  they 
crossed,  nor  was  there  as  they  returned. 
They  had  cleaned  that  German  trench !  And 
they  brought  back  the  body  of  a  man  —  nailed 
to  a  rude  crucifix.  The  thing  was  more  like 
a  T  than  a  cross.  It  was  made  of  planks, 
perhaps  two  by  five,  and  the  man  was  spiked 
on  by  his  hands  and  feet.  Across  the  abdo- 
men he  was  riddled  with  bullets  and  again 
with  another  row  a  little  higher  up  near  his 
chest.  The  man  was  the  sergeant  I  had  talked 
to  earlier  in  the  night.  What  had  happened 
was  this.  He  had,  no  doubt,  been  taken  by 
a  German  patrol.  Probably  he  had  refused 
to  answer  questions.  Perhaps  he  had  insulted 
an  officer.  They  had  crucified  him  and  held 
him  up  above  the  parapet.  With  the  first 
light  his  own  comrades  had  naturally  opened 
on  the  thing  with  the  Lewises,  not  knowing 
what  it  was.  When  it  got  lighter,  and  they 
recognized  the  hellish  thing  that  had  been 
done  to  one  of  their  men,  they  went  over. 


84    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

Nothing  in  this  world  could  have  stopped 
them. 

The  M.  O.  who  viewed  the  body  said  that 
without  question  the  man  had  been  crucified 
ahve.  Also  it  was  said  that  the  same  thing 
had  happened  before. 

I  told  Captain  Green  of  the  occurrence 
when  I  got  back  to  our  own  trenches,  and  he 
ordered  me  to  keep  silent,  which  I  did.  It 
was  feared  that  if  the  affair  got  about  the  men 
would  be  "windy"  on  patrol.  However,  the 
thing  did  get  about  and  was  pretty  well  talked 
over.     Too  many  saw  it. 

The  Canadians  were  reprimanded  for  going 
over  without  orders.  But  they  were  not 
punished.  For  their  officers  went  with  them 
—  led  them. 

Occasionally  the  temptation  is  too  great. 
Once  I  was  out  on  patrol  alone,  having  sent 
my  man  back  with  a  message,  when  I  encoun- 
tered a  Heinie.  I  was  lying  down  at  the  time. 
A  flock  of  lights  went  up  and  showed  this 
fellow  standing  about  ten  feet  from  me.  He 
had  frozen  and  stayed  that  way  till  the  flares 
died,  but  I  was  close  enough  to   see  that  he 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    85 

was  a  German.  Also  —  marvel  of  marvels 
—  he  was  alone. 

When  the  darkness  settled  again,  I  got  to 
my  feet  and  jumped  at  him.  He  jumped  at 
me  —  another  marvel.  Going  into  the  clinch 
I  missed  him  with  the  persuader  and  lost  my 
grip  on  it,  leaving  the  weapon  dangling  by  the 
leather  loop  on  my  wrist.  He  had  struck 
at  me  with  his  automatic,  which  I  think  he 
must  have  dropped,  though  I'm  not  sure  of 
that.  Anyway  we  fell  into  each  other's  arms 
and  went  at  it  barehanded.  He  was  bigger 
than  I.  I  got  under  the  ribs  and  tried  to 
squeeze  the  breath  out  of  him,  but  he  was  too 
rugged. 

At  the  same  time  I  felt  that  he  didn't  relish 
the  clinch.  I  slipped  my  elbow  up  and  got 
under  his  chin,  forcing  his  head  back.  His 
breath  smelled  of  beer  and  onions.  I  was 
choking  him  when  he  brought  his  knee  up  and 
got  me  in  the  stomach  and  again  on  the  instep 
when  he  brought  his  heel  down. 

It  broke  my  hold,  and  I  staggered  back 
groping  for  the  persuader.  He  jumped  back 
as  far  as  I  did.     I  felt  somehow  that  he  was 


86    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

glad.  So  was  I.  We  stood  for  a  minute,  and 
I  heard  him  gutter  out  something  that  sounded 
hke  "Verdamder  swinehunt."  Then  we  both 
backed  away. 

It  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  nicest  way  out 
of  the  situation.     No  doubt  he  felt  the  same. 

I  seem  to  have  wandered  far  from  the 
Quarries  and  the  Grouse  Spots.  Let's  go 
back. 

We  were  two  days  in  the  Grouse  Spots  and 
were  then  relieved,  going  back  to  the  Quarries 
and  taking  the  place  of  Number  9  in  support. 
While  lying  there,  I  drew  a  patrol  that  was 
interesting  because  it  was  different. 

The  Souchez  River  flowed  down  from  Aba- 
laine  and  Souchez  villages  and  through  our  lines 
to  those  of  the  Germans,  and  on  to  Lens. 
Spies,  either  in  the  army  itself  or  in  the  vil- 
lages, had  been  placing  messages  in  bottles 
and  floating  them  down  the  river  to  the  Ger- 
mans. 

Somebody  found  this  out,  and  a  net  of  chicken 
wire  had  been  placed  across  the  river  in  No 
Man's  Land.  Some  one  had  to  go  down  there 
and  fish  for  bottles  twice  nightly.    I  took  this 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    87 

patrol  alone.  The  lines  were  rather  far  apart 
along  the  river,  owing  to  the  swampy  nature 
of  the  ground,  which  made  livable  trenches 
impossible. 

I  slipped  out  and  down  the  slight  incline, 
and  presently  found  myself  in  a  little  valley. 
The  grass  was  rank  and  high,  sometimes  nearly 
up  to  my  chin,  and  the  ground  was  slimy 
and  treacherous.  I  slipped  into  several  shell 
holes  and  was  almost  over  my  head  in  the 
stagnant,  smelly  water. 

I  made  the  river  all  right,  but  there  was  no 
bridge  or  net  in  sight.  The  river  was  not  over 
ten  feet  wide  and  there  was  supposed  to  be 
a  footbridge  of  two  planks  where  the  net  was. 

I  got  back  into  the  grass  and  made  my  way 
downstream.  Sliding  gently  through  the  grass, 
I  kept  catching  my  feet  in  something  hard  that 
felt  like-  roots ;  but  there  were  no  trees  in  the 
neighborhood.  I  reached  down  and  groped 
in  the  grass  and  brought  up  a  human  rib. 
The  place  was  full  of  them,  and  skulls.  Stoop- 
ing, I  could  see  them,  grinning  up  out  of  the 
dusk,  hundreds  of  them.  I  learned  afterwards 
that   this    was    called   the   Valley    of   Death. 


88    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

Early  in  the  war  several  thousand  Zouaves 
had  perished  there,  and  no  attempt  had  been 
made  to  bury  them. 

After  getting  out  of  the  skeletons,  I  scouted 
along  downstream  and  presently  heard  the 
low  voices  of  Germans.  Evidently  they  had 
found  the  net  and  planned  to  get  the  messages 
first.  Creeping  to  the  edge  of  the  grass,  I 
peeped  out.  I  was  opposite  the  bottle  trap. 
I  could  dimly  make  out  the  forms  of  two  men 
standing  on  the  nearer  end  of  the  plank  bridge. 
They  were,  I  should  judge,  about  ten  yards 
away,  and  they  hadn't  heard  me.  I  got  out 
a  Mills,  pulled  the  pin,  and  pitched  it.  The 
bomb  exploded,  perhaps  five  feet  this  side  of 
the  men.     One  dropped,  and  the  other  ran. 

After  a  short  wait  I  ran  over  to  the  Ger- 
man. I  searched  him  for  papers,  found  none, 
and  rolled  him  into  the  river. 

After  a  few  days  in  the  Quarries  we  were 
moved  to  what  was  known  as  the  Warren,  so 
called  because  the  works  resembled  a  rabbit 
warren.  This  was  on  the  lower  side  and  to 
the  left  end  of  Vimy  Ridge,  and  was  extra 
dangerous.     It  did  seem  as  though  each  place 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    89 

was  worse  than  the  last.  The  Warren  was  a 
regular  network  of  trenches,  burrows,  and  funk 
holes,  and  we  needed  them  all. 

The  position  was  downhill  from  the  Huns, 
and  they  kept  sending  over  and  down  a  con- 
tinuous stream  of  "pip-squeaks",  "whiz- 
bangs",  and  "minnies."  The  "pip-squeak" 
is  a  shell  that  starts  with  a  silly  "pip",  goes 
on  with  a  sillier  "squeeeeee",  and  goes  off 
with  a  man's-si'ze  bang. 

The  "whiz-bang"  starts  with  a  rough  whirr 
like  a  flushing  cock  partridge,  and  goes  off  on 
contact  with  a  tremendous  bang.  It  is  not  as 
dangerous  as  it  sounds,  but  bad  enough. 

The  "minnie"  is  about  the  size  of  a  two- 
gallon  kerosene  can,  and  comes  somersaulting 
over  in  a  high  arc  and  is  concentrated  death 
and  destruction  when  it  lands.  It  has  one 
virtue  —  you  can  see  it  coming  and  dodge, 
and  at  night  it  most  considerately  leaves  a 
trail  of  sparks. 

The  Boche  served  us  full  portions  of  all  three 
of  these  man-killers  in  the  Warren  and  kept 
us  ducking  in  and  out  pretty  much  all  the 
time,  night  and  day. . 


90    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

I  was  lucky  enough  after  the  first  day  to  be 
put  on  sappers'  duty.  The  Sappers,  or  Engi- 
neers, are  the  men  whose  duty  it  is  to  run 
mines  under  No  Man's  Land  and  plant  huge 
quantities  of  explosives.  There  was  a  great 
amount  of  mining  going  on  all  the  time  at 
Vimy  Ridge  from  both  sides. 

Sometimes  Fritz  would  run  a  sap  out  rea- 
sonably near  the  surface,  and  we  would  counter 
with  one  lower  down.  Then  he'd  go  us  one 
better  and  go  still  deeper.  Some  of  the  mines 
went  down  and  under  hundreds  of  feet.  The 
result  of  all  this  was  that  on  our  side  at  least, 
the  Sappers  were  under-manned  and  a  good 
many  infantry  were  drafted  into  that  service. 

I  had  charge  of  a  gang  and  had  to  fill  sand- 
bags with  the  earth  removed  from  the  end  of 
the  sap  and  get  it  out  and  pile  the  bags  on  the 
parapets.  We  were  well  out  toward  the  Ger- 
man lines  and  deep  under  the  hill  when  we 
heard  them  digging  below  us.  An  engineer 
officer  came  in  and  listened  for  an  hour  and 
decided  that  they  were  getting  in  explosives 
and  that  it  was  up  to  us  to  beat  them  to  it. 
Digging  stopped  at  once  and  we  began  rushing 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    91 

in  H.  E.  in  fifty-pound  boxes.  I  was  ordered 
back  into   supports   with   my   section. 

Right  here  I  began  to  have  luck.  Just  see 
how  this  worked  out.  First  a  rushing  party 
was  organized  whose  duty  it  was  to  rush  the 
crater  made  by  the  mine  explosion  and  occupy 
it  before  the  Germans  got  there.  Sixty  men 
were  selected,  a  few  from  each  company,  and 
placed  where  they  were  supposedly  safe,  but 
where  they  could  get  up  fast.  This  is  the  most 
dangerous  duty  an  infantryman  has  to  do, 
because  both  sides  after  a  mine  explosion 
shower  in  fifty-seven  varieties  of  sudden  death, 
including  a  perfect  rain  of  machine-gun  bul- 
lets. The  chances  of  coming  out  of  a  rushing 
party  with  a  whole  hide  are  about  one  in  five. 

Well,  for  a  wonder,  I  didn't  get  drawn  for 
this  one,  and  I  breathed  one  long,  deep  sigh 
of  relief,  put  my  hand  inside  my  tunic  and 
patted  Dinky  on  the  back.  Dinky  is  my 
mascot.     I'll  tell  you  about  him  later. 

On  top  of  that  another  bit  of  luck  came 
along,  though  it  didn't  seem  like  it  at  the 
moment.  It  was  the  custom  for  a  ration 
party  to  go  out  each  night  and  get  up  the 


92    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

grub.  This  party  had  to  go  over  the  duck 
walk  and  was  under  fire  both  going  and  com- 
ing. One  of  the  corporals  who  had  been  out 
on  rations  two  nights  in  succession  began  to 
"grouse," 

Of  course  Sergeant  Page  spotted  me  and 
detailed  me  to  the  "wangler's"  duty,  I 
*'groused"  too,  like  a  good  fellow,  but  had  to 
go. 

"Garn,"  says  Wellsie.  "Wot's  the  diff  if 
yer  gets  it  'ere  or  there.  If  ye  clicks,  I'll  draw 
yer  fags  from  Blighty  and  say  a  prayer  for  yer 
soul.     On  yer  way," 

Cheerful  beggar,  Wellsie.  He  was  doing  me 
a  favor  and  didn't  know  it. 

I  did  the  three  miles  along  the  duck  walk 
with  the  ration  party,  and  there  wasn't  a  shell 
came  our  way.  Queer !  Nor  on  the  way 
back.  Queerer !  When  we  were  nearly  back 
and  were  about  five  hundred  yards  from  the 
base  of  the  Pimple,  a  dead  silence  fell  on  the 
German  side  of  the  line.  There  wasn't  a  gun 
nor  a  mortar  nor  even  a  rifle  in  action  for  a 
mile  in  either  direction.  There  was,  too,  a 
kind  of  sympathetic  let-up  on  our  side.     There 


FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK    93 

weren't  any  lights  going  up.  There  was  an 
electric  tension  in  the  very  air.  You  could 
tell  by  the  feel  that  something  big  was  going 
to  happen. 

I  halted  the  ration  party  at  the  end  of  the 
duck  walk  and  waited.  But  not  for  long. 
Suddenly  the  "Very"  lights  went  up  from  the 
German  side,  literally  in  hundreds,  illuminat- 
ing the  top  of  the  ridge  and  the  sky  behind 
with  a  thin  greenish  white  flare.  Then  came 
a  deep  rumble  that  shook  the  ground,  and 
a  dull  boom.  A  spurt  of  blood-red  flame 
squirted  up  from  the  near  side  of  the  hill,  and 
a  rolling  column  of  gray  smoke. 

Then  another  rumble,  and  another,  and  then 
the  whole  side  of  the  ridge  seemed  to  open  up 
and  move  slowly  skyward  with  a  world-wreck- 
ing, soul-paralyzing  crash.  A  murky  red  glare 
lit  up  the  smoke  screen,  and  against  it  a 
mass  of  tossed-up  debris,  and  for  an  instant 
I  caught  the  black  silhouette  of  a  whole  human 
body  spread-eagled  and  spinning  like  a  pin- 
wheel. 

Most  of  our  party,  even  at  the  distance, 
were  knocked  down  by  the  gigantic  impact  of 


94    FASCINATION  OF  PATROL  WORK 

the  explosion.  A  shower  of  earth  and  rock 
chunks,  some  as  big  as  a  barrel,  fell  around  us. 

Then  we  heard  a  far-away  cheering,  and  in 
the  light  of  the  jflares  we  saw  a  newly  made 
hill  and  our  men  swarming  up  it  to  the  crater. 
Two  mines  had  exploded,  and  the  whole  side 
of  the  Pimple  had  been  torn  away.  Half  of 
our  rushing  party  were  killed  and  we  had  sixty 
casualties  from  shock  and  wounds  among  men 
who  were  supposed  to  be  at  a  safe  distance 
from  the  mining  operation.  But  we  took  and 
held  the  new  crater  positions. 

The  corporal  whose  place  I  had  taken  on 
the  ration  party  was  killed  by  falling  stones. 
Inasmuch  as  he  was  where  I  would  have  been, 
I  considered  that  I  had  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  "going  west !"     More  luck! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

On  the  Go 

Marching,  marching,  marching, 
Always  ruddy  well  marching. 
Marching  all  the  morning. 
And  marching  all  the  night. 
Marching,  marching,  marching. 
Always  ruddy  well  marching. 
Roll  on  till  my  time  is  up 
And  I  shall  march  no  more. 

A^rE  sung  it  to  the  tune  of  "Holy,  Holy, 
Holy  ",  the  whole  blooming  battalion.  As 
we  swung  down  the  Boulevard  Alsace-Lorraine 
in  Amiens  and  passed  the  great  cathedral  up 
there  to  the  left,  on  its  little  rise  of  ground, 
the  chant  lifted  and  lilted  and  throbbed  up 
from  near  a  thousand  throats,  much  as  the 
unisoned  devotions  of  the  olden  monks  must 
have  done  in  other  days. 

Ours  was  a  holy  cause,  but  despite  the 
association  of  the  tune  the  song  was  far  from 
being  a  holy  song.     It  was,  rather,  a  chanted 


96  ON  THE   GO 

remonstrance  against  all  hiking  and  against 
this  one  in  particular. 

After  our  service  at  Vimy  Ridge  some  one 
in  authority  somewhere  decided  that  the  22nd 
Battalion  and  two  others  were  not  quite  good 
enough  for  really  smart  work.  We  were,  in- 
deed, hard.  But  not  hard  enough.  So  some 
superior  intellect  squatting  somewhere  in  the 
safety  of  the  rear,  with  a  finger  on  the  pulse 
of  the  army,  decreed  that  we  were  to  get 
not  only  hard  but  tough ;  and  to  that  end  we 
were  to  hike.     Hike  we  did. 

For  more  than  three  weeks  we  went  from 
place  to  place  with  no  apparent  destination, 
wandering  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  country- 
side of  Northern  France,  imposing  ourselves 
upon  the  people  of  little  villages,  shamming 
battle  over  their  cultivated  fields,  and  sleep- 
ing in  their  hen  coops. 

I  kept  a  diary  on  that  hike.  It  was  a  thing 
forbidden,  but  I  managed  it.  One  manages 
many  things  out  there.  I  have  just  read  over 
that  diary.  There  isn't  much  to  it  but  a 
succession  of  town  names,  —  Villiers  du  Bois, 
Maisincourt,  Barly,  Oneaux,  Canchy,  Amiens, 


ON   THE   GO  97 

Bourdon,  Villiers  Bocage,  Agenvilliers,  Behen- 
court,  and  others  that  I  failed  to  set  down 
and  have  forgotten.  We  swept  across  that 
country,  sweating  under  our  packs,  harden- 
ing our  muscles,  stopping  here  for  a  day, 
there  for  five  days  for  extended-order  drills 
and  bayonet  and  musketry  practice,  and 
somewhere  else  for  a  sham  battle.  We  were 
getting  ready  to  go  into  the  Somme. 

The  weather,  by  some  perversity  of  fate, 
was  fair  during  all  of  that  hiking  time.  When- 
ever I  was  in  the  trenches  it  always  rained, 
whether  the  season  warranted  it  or  not.  Ex- 
cept on  days  when  we  were  scheduled  to  go 
over  the  top.  Then,  probably  because  rain 
will  sometimes  hold  up  a  planned-for  attack, 
it  was  always  fair. 

On  the  hike,  with  good  roads  under  foot, 
the  soldier  does  not  mind  a  little  wet  and 
welcomes  a  lot  of  clouds.  No  such  luck  for 
us.  It  was  clear  all  the  time.  Not  only 
clear  but  blazing  hot  August  weather. 

On  our  first  march  out  of  the  Cabaret  Rouge 
communication  trench  we  covered  a  matter  of 
ten  miles  to  a  place  called  Villiers  du   Bois. 


98  ON  THE  GO 

Before  that  I  had  never  fully  realized  just 
what  it  meant  to  go  it  in  full  heavy  equipment. 

Often  on  the  march  I  compared  my  lot 
with  that  of  the  medieval  soldier  who  had 
done  his  fighting  over  these  same  fields  of 
Northern  France. 

The  knight  of  the  Middle  Ages  was  all 
dressed  up  like  a  hardware  store  with,  I  should 
judge,  about  a  hundred  pounds  of  armor.  But 
he  rode  a  horse  and  had  a  squire  or  some  such 
striker  trailing  along  in  the  rear  with  the 
things  to  make  him  comfortable,  when  the 
fighting  was  over. 

The  modern  soldier  gets  very  little  help  in 
his  war  making.  He  is,  in  fact,  more  likely 
to  be  helping  somebody  else  than  asking  for 
assistance  for  himself.  The  soldier  has  two 
basic  functions :  first,  to  keep  himself  whole 
and  healthy ;  second,  to  kill  the  other  fellow. 
To  the  end  that  he  may  do  these  two  perfectly 
simple  things,  he  has  to  carry  about  eighty 
pounds  of  weight  all  the  time. 

He  has  a  blanket,  a  waterproof  sheet,  a 
greatcoat,  extra  boots,  extra  underwear,  a 
haversack  with  iron  rations,  entrenching  tools. 


ON  THE   GO  99 

a  bayonet,  a  water  bottle,  a  mess  kit,  a  rifle, 
two  hundred  fifty  rounds  of  ammo,  a  tin  hat, 
two  gas  helmets,  and  a  lot  of  miscellaneous 
small  junk.  All  this  is  draped,  hung,  and 
otherwise  disposed  over  his  figure  by  means 
of  a  web  harness  having  more  hooks  than  a 
hatrack.  He  parallels  the  old-time  knight 
only  in  the  matter  of  the  steel  helmet  and 
the  rifle,  which,  with  the  bayonet,  corresponds 
to  the  lance,  sword,  and  battle-ax,  three  in 
one. 

The  modern  soldier  carries  all  his  worldly 
goods  with  him  all  the  time.  He  hates  to 
hike.     But  he  has  to. 

I  remember  very  vividly  that  first  day. 
The  temperature  was  around  90°,  and  some 
fool  oflScers  had  arranged  that  we  start  at 
one,  —  the  very  worst  time  of  the  day.  The 
roads  so  near  the  front  were  pulverized,  and 
the  dust  rose  in  dense  clouds.  The  long 
straight  lines  of  poplars  beside  the  road  were 
gray  with  it,  and  the  heat  waves  shimmered 
up  from  the  fields. 

Before  we  had  gone  five  miles  the  men 
began  to  wilt.     Right  away  I  had  some  more 


100  ON  THE  GO 

of  the  joys  of  being  a  corporal  brought  home 
to  me.  I  was  already  touched  with  trench 
fever  and  was  away  under  par.  That  didn't 
make  any  difference. 

On  the  march,  when  the  men  begin  to  weaken, 
an  officer  is  sure  to  trot  up  and  say : 

"Corporal  Holmes,  just  carry  this  man's 
rifle,"  or  "Corporal  Collins,  take  that  man's 
pack.     He's  jolly  well  done." 

Seemingly  the  corporal  never  is  supposed 
to  be  jolly  well  done.  If  one  complained, 
his  officer  would  look  at  him  with  astounded 
reproach  and  say : 

"Why,  Corporal.  We  cawn't  have  this, 
you  know !  You  are  a  Non-commissioned 
Officer,  and  you  must  set  an  example.  You 
must,  rahly." 

When  we  jBnally  hit  the  town  where  our 
billets  were,  we  found  our  company  quartered 
in  an  old  barn.  It  was  dirty,  and  there  was 
a  pigpen  at  one  end,  —  very  smelly  in  the 
August  heat.  We  flopped  in  the  ancient 
filth.  The  cooties  were  very  active,  as  we 
were  drenched  with  sweat  and  hadn't  had  a 
bath  since  heavens  knew  when.     We  had  had 


ON  THE  GO  101 

about  ten  minutes'  rest  and  were  thinking 
about  getting  out  of  the  harness  when  up 
came  Mad  Harry,  one  of  our  "leftenants",  and 
ordered  us  out  for  foot  inspection. 

I  don't  want  to  say  anything  unfair  about 
this  man.  He  is  dead  now.  I  saw  him  die. 
He  was  brave.  He  knew  his  job  all  right, 
but  he  was  a  fine  example  of  what  an  officer 
ought  not  to  be.  The  only  reason  I  speak  of 
him  is  because  I  want  to  say  something  about 
officers  in  general. 

This  Mad  Harry,  —  I  do  not  give  his  sur- 
name for  obvious  reasons,  —  was  the  son  of 
one  of  the  richest-new-rich-merchant  families 
in  England.  He  was  very  highly  educated, 
had,  I  take  it,  spent  the  most  of  his  life  with 
the  classics.  He  was  long  and  thin  and  sallow 
and  fish-eyed.  He  spoke  in  a  low  colorless 
monotone,  absolutely  without  any  inflection 
whatever.  The  men  thought  he  was  balmy. 
Hence  the  nickname  Mad  Harry. 

Mad  Harry  was  a  fiend  for  walking.  And 
at  the  end  of  a  twenty-mile  hike  in  heavy 
marching  order  he  would  casually  stroll  along- 
side some  sweating  soldier  and  drone  out, 


102  ON  THE  GO 

"I  say,  Private  Stetson.  Don't  you  just 
love  to  hike?" 

Then  and  there  he  made  a  hfelong  personal 
enemy  of  Private  Stetson.  In  the  same  or 
similar  ways  he  made  personal  enemies  of 
every  private  soldier  he  came  in  contact 
with. 

It  may  do  no  harm  to  tell  how  Mad  Harry 
died.  He  came  very  near  being  shot  by  one 
of  his  own  men. 

It  was  on  the  Somme.  We  were  in  the 
middle  of  a  bit  of  a  show,  and  we  were  all 
hands  down  in  shell  holes  with  a  heavy  ma- 
chine-gun fire  crackling  overhead.  I  was  in 
one  hole,  and  in  the  next,  which  merged 
with  mine,  were  two  chaps  who  were  cousins. 

Mad  Harry  came  along,  walking  perfectly 
upright,  regardless  of  danger,  with  his  left 
arm  shattered.  He  dropped  into  the  next 
shell  hole  and  with  his  expressionless  drawl 
unshaken,  said,  "Private  X.     Dress  my  arm." 

Private  X  got  out  his  own  emergency  band- 
age and  fixed  the  arm.  When  it  was  done 
Mad  Harry,  still  speaking  in  his  monotonous 
drone,  said: 


ON  THE   GO  103 

"Now,  Private  X,  get  up  out  of  this  hole. 
Don't  be  hiding." 

Private  X  obeyed  orders  without  a  question. 
He  climbed  out  and  fell  with  a  bullet  through 
his  head.  His  cousin,  who  was  a  very  dear 
friend  of  the  boy,  evidently  went  more  or  less 
crazy  at  this.  I  saw  him  leap  at  Mad  Harry 
and  snatch  his  pistol  from  the  holster.  He 
was,  I  think,  about  to  shoot  his  officer  when 
a  shell  burst  overhead  and  killed  them  both. 

Well,  on  this  first  day  of  the  hike  Mad  Harry 
ordered  us  out  for  foot  inspection,  as  I  have 
said.  I  found  that  I  simply  couldn't  get  them 
out.  They  were  in  no  condition  for  foot  in- 
spection, —  hadn't  washed  for  days.  Harry 
came  round  and  gave  me  a  royal  dressing 
down  and  ordered  the  whole  bunch  out  for 
parade  and  helmet  inspection.  We  were  kept 
standing  for  an  hour.  You  couldn't  blame  the 
men  for  hating  an  officer  of  that  kind. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  Mad  Harry  was 
not  a  usual  type  of  British  officer.  He  simply 
carried  to  excess  the  idea  of  discipline  and 
unquestioning  obedience.  The  principle  of  dis- 
cipline is  the  guts  and  backbone  of  any  army. 


104  ON  THE  GO 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  is  more  than 
half  the  making  of  any  soldier.  There  has 
been  a  good  deal  of  talk  in  the  press  about 
a  democratic  army.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
fraternization  between  men  and  oflficers  is 
impossible  except  in  nations  of  exceptional 
temperament  and  imagination,  like  the  French. 
The  French  are  unique  in  everything.  It 
follows  that  their  army  can  do  things  that 
no  other  army  can.  It  is  common  to  see  a 
French  officer  sitting  in  a  cafe  drinking  with 
a  private. 

In  the  British  army  that  could  not  be. 
The  new  British  army  is  more  democratic, 
no  doubt,  than  the  old.  But  except  in  the 
heat  of  battle,  no  British  officer  can  relax 
his  dignity  very  much.  With  the  exception 
of  Mr.  Blofeld,  who  was  one  of  those  rare 
characters  who  can  be  personally  close  and 
sympathetic  and  at  the  same  time  command 
respect  and  implicit  obedience,  I  never  knew 
a  successful  officer  who  did  not  seem  to  be 
almost  of  another  world. 

Our  Colonel  was  a  fine  man,  but  he  was  as 
dignified    as    a    Supreme    Court    Judge.     In- 


ON   THE   GO  105 

cidentally  he  was  as  just.  I  have  watched 
Colonel  Flowers  many  times  when  he  was 
holding  orders.  This  is  a  kind  of  court  when 
all  men  who  have  committed  crimes  and  have 
been  passed  on  by  the  captains  appear  before 
the  Colonel. 

Colonel  Flowers  would  sit  smiling  behind 
his  hand,  and  would  try  his  hardest  to  find 
"mitigating  circumstances";  but  when  none 
could  be  dug  out  he  passed  sentence  with  the 
last  limit  of  severity,  and  the  man  that  was 
up  for  orders  didn't  come  again  if  he  knew 
what  was  good  for  himself. 

I  think  that  on  the  hike  we  all  got  to  know 
our  officers  better  than  we  had  known  them 
in  the  trenches.  Their  real  characters  came 
out.  You  knew  how  far  you  could  go  with 
them,  and  what  was  more  imoortant,  how 
far  you  couldn't  go. 

It  was  at  Dieval  that  my  rank  as  lance 
corporal  was  confirmed.  It  is  customary, 
when  a  rookie  has  been  made  a  non-com  in 
training,  to  reduce  him  immediately  when  he 
gets  to  France.  I  had  joined  in  the  trenches 
and  had  volunteered  for  a  raiding  party  and 


lOe  ON  THE  GO 

there  had  been  no  opportunity  to  reduce 
me.  I  had  not,  however,  had  a  corporal's  pay. 
My  confirmation  came  at  Dieval,  and  I  was 
put  on  pay.  I  would  have  willingly  sacrificed 
the  pay  and  the  so-called  honor  to  have  been 
a  private. 

Our  routine  throughout  the  hike  was  always 
about  the  same,  that  is  in  the  intervals  when 
we  were  in  any  one  place  for  a  day  or  more. 
It  was,  up  at  six,  breakfast  of  tea,  bread, 
and  bacon.  Drill  till  noon;  dinner;  drill 
till  five.  After  that  nothing  to  do  till  to- 
morrow, unless  we  got  night  'ops,  which  was 
about  two  nights  out  of  three. 

There  were  few  Y.  M.  C.  A.  huts  so  far  behind 
the  lines,  and  the  short  time  up  to  nine  was 
usually  spent  in  the  estaminets.  The  games 
of  house  were  in  full  blast  all  the  time. 
f  On  the  hike  we  were  paid  weekly.  Privates 
got  five  francs,  corporals  ten,  and  sergeants 
fifteen  to  twenty  a  week.  That's  a  lot  of 
money.  Anything  left  over  was  held  back 
to  be  paid  when  we  got  to  Blighty.  Parcels 
and  mail  came  along  with  perfect  regularity 
on  that  hike.     It  was  and  is  a  marvel  to  me 


ON  THE  GO  107 

how  they  do  it.  A  battalion  chasing  around 
all  over  the  place  gets  its  stuff  from  Blighty 
day  after  day,  right  on  the  tick  and  without 
any  question.  I  only  hope  that  whatever 
the  system  is,  our  army  will  take  advantage 
of  it.  A  shortage  of  letters  and  luxury  parcels 
is  a  real  hardship. 

We  finally  brought  up  at  a  place  called 
Oneux  (pronounced  Oh,  no)  and  were  there 
five  days.  I  fell  into  luck  here.  It  was  cus- 
tomary, when  we  were  marching  on  some 
unsuspecting  village,  to  send  the  quartermaster 
sergeants  ahead  on  bicycles  to  locate  billets. 
We  had  an  old  granny  named  Cypress,  better 
known  as  Lizzie.  The  other  sergeants  were 
accustomed  to  flim-flam  Lizzie  to  a  finish  on 
the  selection  of  billets,  with  the  result  that 
C  company  usually  slept  in  pigpens  or  stables. 

The  day  we  approached  Oneux,  Lizzie  was 
sick,  and  I  was  delegated  to  his  job.  I  went 
into  the  town,  with  the  three  other  quarter- 
master sergeants,  got  them  into  an  estaminet, 
bought  about  a  dollar's  worth  of  drinks, 
sneaked  out  the  back  door,  and  preempted 
the  schoolhouse  for  C  company.     I  also  took 


108  ON   THE   GO 

the  house  next  door,  which  was  big  and  clean, 
for  the  officers.  We  were  royally  comfortable 
there,  and  the  other  companies  used  the 
stables  that  usually  fell  to  our  lot. 

As  a  reward,  I  suspect,  I  was  picked  for 
Orderly  Corporal,  a  cushy  job.  We  all  of 
us  had  it  fairly  easy  at  Oneux.  It  was  hot 
weather,  and  nights  we  used  to  sit  out  in  the 
schoolhouse  yard  and  talk  about  the  war. 

Some  of  the  opinions  voiced  out  there  with 
more  frankness  than  any  one  would  dare  to 
use  at  home  would,  I  am  sure,  shock  some  of 
the  patriots.  The  fact  is  that  any  one  who 
has  fought  in  France  wants  peace,  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  : 

We  had  one  old-timer,  out  since  Mons,  who 
habitually,  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
would  pipe  up  with  the  same  old  plaint.  Some- 
thing like  this  : 

"Hi  arsks  yer.  Wot  are  we  fightin'  for? 
Wot'd  th'  Belgiums  hever  do  fer  us?  Wot? 
Wot'd  th'  Rooshians  hever  do  fer  us?  Wot's 
th'  good  of  th'  Frenchies?  Wot's  th'  good 
of  hanybody  but  th'  Henglish  ?  Gawd  lumme ! 
I'm  fed  up." 


ON  THE  GO  109 

And  yet  this  man  had  gone  out  at  the 
beginning  and  would  fight  hke  the  very 
devil,  and  I  verily  believe  will  be  homesick 
for  the  trenches  if  he  is  alive  when  it  is  all 
over. 

Bones,  who  was  educated  and  a  thoughtful 
reader,  had  it  figured  out  that  the  war  was 
all  due  to  the  tyranny  of  the  ruling  classes, 
with  the  Kaiser  the  chief  offender. 

A  lot  of  the  men  wanted  peace  at  any 
reasonable  price.  Anything,  so  they  would 
get  back  to  'Arriet  or  Sadie  or  Maria. 

I  should  say  offhand  that  there  was  not  one 
man  in  a  hundred  who  was  fighting  consciously 
for  any  great  recognized  principle.  And  yet, 
with  all  their  grousing  and  criticism,  and  all 
their  overwhelming  desire  to  have  it  over 
with,  every  one  of  them  was  loyal  and  brave 
and  a  hard  fighter. 

A  good  deal  has  been  written  about  the 
brilliancy  of  the  Canadians  and  the  other 
Colonials.  Too  much  credit  cannot  be  given 
these  men.  In  an  attack  there  are  no  troops 
with  more  dash  than  the  Canadians,  but  when 
it  comes  to  taking  punishment  and  hanging 


110  ON  THE  GO 

on  a  hopeless  situation,  there  are  no  troops 
in  the  wide  world  who  can  equal,  much  less 
surpass,  the  English.  Personally  I  think  that 
comparisons  should  be  avoided.  All  the  Allies 
are  doing  their  full  duty  with  all  that  is  in  them. 

During  most  of  the  war  talk,  it  was  my  habit 
to  keep  discreetly  quiet.  We  were  not  in  the 
war  yet,  and  any  remarks  from  me  usually 
drew  some  hot  shot  about  Mr.  Wilson's  "blank- 
ety-blinked  bloomin'  notes." 

There  was  another  American,  a  chap  named 
Sanford  from  Virginia,  in  B  company,  and  he 
and  I  used  to  furnish  a  large  amount  of  enter- 
tainment in  these  war  talks.  Sanford  was  a 
F.  F.  V.  and  didn't  care  who  knew  it.  Also  he 
thought  General  Lee  was  the  greatest  military 
genius  ever  known.  One  night  he  and  I  got 
started  and  had  it  hot  and  heavy  as  to  the 
merits  of  the  Civil  War.  This  for  some  reason 
tickled  the  Tommies  half  to  death,  and  after 
that  they  would  egg  us  on  to  a  discussion. 

One  of  them  would  slyly  say,  "Darby,  'oo  th* 
blinkin'  'ell  was  this  blighter.  General  Grant?" 

Or,  "Hi  sye,  Sandy,  Hi  'card  Darby  syin' 
'ow  this  General  Lee  was  a  bleedin'  swab." 


ON  THE  GO  111 

Then  Sanford  and  I  would  pass  tlie  wink 
and  go  at  it  tooth  and  nail.  It  was  ridiculous, 
arguing  the  toss  on  a  long-gone-by  small-time 
scrap  like  the  Civil  War  with  the  greatest 
show  in  history  going  on  all  around  us.  Any- 
way the  Tommies  loved  it  and  would  fairly 
howl  with  delight  when  we  got  to  going 
good. 

It  is  strange,  but  with  so  many  Americans 
in  the  British  service,  I  ran  up  against  very 
few.  I  remember  one  night  when  we  were 
making  a  night  march  from  one  village  to 
another,  we  stopped  for  the  customary  ten- 
minutes-in-the-hour  rest.  Over  yonder  in  a 
field  there  was  a  camp  of  some  kind,  —  prob- 
ably field  artillery.  There  was  dim  light  of 
a  fire  and  the  low  murmur  of  voices.  And 
then  a  fellow  began  to  sing  in  a  nice  tenor : 

Bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairie 
Where  the  wild  coyotes  howl  o'er  me. 
Bury  me  down  in  the  little  churchyard 
In  a  grave  just  six  by  three. 

The  last  time  I  had  heard  that  song  was  in 
New  Orleans,  and  it  was  sung  by  a  wild  Texan. 
So  I  yelled,  "Hello  there,  Texas." 


112  ON  THE  GO 

He  answered,  "Hello,  Yank.     Where  from?" 

I  answered,  "Boston." 

"Give  my  regards  to  Tremont  Street  and 
go  to  hell,"  says  he.  A  gale  of  laughter  came 
out  of  the  night.  Just  then  we  had  the  order 
to  fall  in,  and  away  we  went.  I'd  like  to 
know  sometime  who  that  chap  was. 

After  knocking  about  all  over  the  north  of 
France  seemingly,  we  brought  up  at  Canchy 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  Here  the  whole  bri- 
gade, four  battalions,  had  church  parade, 
and  after  that  the  band  played  ragtime  and 
the  officers  had  a  gabfest  and  compared  medals, 
on  top  of  which  we  were  soaked  with  two 
hours'  steady  drill.  We  were  at  Canchy  ten 
days,  and  they  gave  it  to  us  good  and  plenty. 
We  would  drill  all  day  and  after  dark  it  would 
be  night  'ops.  Finally  so  many  men  were 
going  to  the  doctor  worn  out  that  he  ordered 
a  whole  day  and  a  half  of  rest. 

Mr.  Blofeld  on  Saturday  night  suggested 
that,  as  we  were  going  into  the  Somme  within 
a  few  weeks,  the  non-coms  ought  to  have  a 
little  blow-out.  It  would  be  the  last  time  we 
would  all  ever  be  together.     He  furnished  us 


ON  THE   GO  113 

with  all  the  drinkables  we  could  get  away  with, 
including  some  very  choice  Johnny  Walker. 
There  was  a  lot  of  canned  stuff,  mostly  sar- 
dines. Mr.  Blofeld  loaned  us  the  officers' 
phonograph. 

It  was  a  large,  wet  night.  Everybody  made 
a  speech  or  sang  a  song,  and  we  didn't  go  home 
until  morning.  It  was  a  farewell  party,  and 
we  went  the  limit.  If  there  is  one  thing  that 
the  Britisher  does  better  than  another,  it  is 
getting  ready  to  die.  He  does  it  with  a  smile, 
—  and  he  dies  with  a  laugh. 

Poor  chaps  !  Nearly  all  of  them  are  pushing 
up  the  daisies  somewhere  in  France.  Those 
who  are  not  are,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
out  of  the  army  with  broken  bodies. 


CHAPTER  IX 

First  Sight  of  the  Tanks 

T    ATE    in    the   summer    I    accumulated   a 
"^"^  nice  little  case  of  trench  fever. 

This  disease  is  due  to  remaining  for  long 
periods  in  the  wet  and  mud,  to  racked  nerves, 
and,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  to  sleeping  in  the 
foul  air  of  the  dug-outs.  The  chief  symptom 
is  high  temperature,  and  the  patient  aches  a 
good  deal.  I  was  sent  back  to  a  place  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Arras  and  was  there  a 
week  recuperating. 

I'  While  I  was  there  a  woman  spy  whom  I  had 
known  in  Abalaine  was  brought  to  the  village 
and  shot.  The  frequency  with  which  the 
duck  walk  at  Abalaine  had  been  shelled,  es- 
pecially when  ration  parties  or  troops  were  going 
over  it,  had  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention. 

There  was  a  single  house  not  far  from  the 
end  of  that  duck  walk  west  of  Abalaine,  oc- 
cupied by  a  woman  and  two  or  three  children. 


FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS    115 

She  had  lived  there  for  years  and  was,  so  far 
as  anybody  knew,  a  Frenchwoman  in  breeding 
and  sympathies.  She  was  in  the  habit  of 
selHng  coffee  to  the  soldiers,  and,  of  course, 
gossiped  with  them  and  thus  gained  a  good 
deal  of  information  about  troop  movements. 

She  was  not  suspected  for  a  long  time.  Then 
a  gunner  of  a  battery  which  was  stationed 
near  by  noticed  that  certain  children's  garments, 
a  red  shirt  and  a  blue  one  and  several  white 
garments,  were  on  the  clothesline  in  certain 
arrangement  on  the  days  when  troops  were 
to  be  moved  along  the  duck  walk  the  following 
night.  This  soldier  notified  his  officers,  and 
evidence  was  accumulated  that  the  woman 
was  signalling  to  the  Boche  airplanes. 

She  was  arrested,  taken  to  the  rear,  and 
shot.  I  don't  like  to  think  that  this  woman 
was  really  French.  She  was,  no  doubt,  one 
of  the  myriad  of  spies  who  were  planted 
in  France  by  the  Germans  long  before  the 
war. 

After  getting  over  the  fever,  I  rejoined  my 
battalion  in  the  early  part  of  September  in 
the  Somme  district   at    a   place    called    Mill 


116    FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

Street.  This  was  in  reality  a  series  of  dug- 
outs along  a  road  some  little  distance  behind 
our  second  lines,  but  in  the  range  of  the  Ger- 
man guns,  which  persistently  tried  for  our 
artillery  just  beside  us. 

Within  an  hour  of  my  arrival  I  was  treated 
to  a  taste  of  one  of  the  forms  of  German  kul- 
tur  which  was  new  at  the  time.  At  least  it 
was  new  to  me  —  tear  gas.  This  delectable 
vapor  came  over  in  shells,  comparatively 
harmless  in  themselves,  but  which  loosed  a 
gas,  smelling  at  first  a  little  like  pineapple. 
When  you  got  a  good  inhale  you  choked,  and 
the  eyes  began  to  run.  There  was  no  con- 
trolling the  tears,  and  the  victim  would  fairly 
drip  for  a  long  time,  leaving  him  wholly  in- 
capacitated. 

Goggles  provided  for  this  gas  were  nearly 
useless,  and  we  all  resorted  to  the  regular  gas 
helmet.  In  this  way  we  were  able  to  stand 
the  stuff. 

The  gas  mask,  by  the  way,  was  the  bane 
of  my  existence  in  the  trenches  —  one  of  the 
banes.  I  found  that  almost  invariably  after 
I  had  had  mine  on  for  a  few  minutes  I  got 


FIRST  SIGHT  OP  THE  TANKS    111 

faint.  Very  often  I  would  keel  over  entirely. 
A  good  many  of  the  men  were  affected  the 
same  way,  either  from  the  lack  of  air  inside 
the  mask  or  by  the  influence  of  the  chemicals 
with  which  the  protector  is  impregnated. 

One  of  the  closest  calls  I  had  in  all  my  war 
experience  was  at  Mills  Street.  And  Fritz 
was  not  to  blame. 

Several  of  the  men,  including  myself,  were 
squatted  around  a  brazier  cooking  char  and 
getting  warm,  for  the  nights  were  cold,  when 
there  was  a  terrific  explosion.  Investigation 
proved  that  an  unexploded  bomb  had  been 
buried  under  the  brazier,  and  that  it  had  gone 
off  as  the  heat  penetrated  the  ground.  It  is 
a  wonder  there  weren't  more  of  these  accidents, 
as  Tommy  was  forever  throwing  away  his 
Millses. 

The  Mills  bomb  fires  by  pulling  out  a  pin 
which  releases  a  lever  which  explodes  the 
bomb  after  four  seconds.  Lots  of  men  never 
really  trust  a  bomb.  If  you  have  one  in  your 
pocket,  you  feel  that  the  pin  may  somehow 
get  out,  and  if  it  does  you  know  that  you'll 
go  to  glory  in  small  bits.     I  always  had  that 


118     FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

feeling  myself  and  used  to  throw  away  my 
Millses  and  scoop  a  hatful  of  dirt  over  them 
with  my  foot. 

This  particular  bomb  killed  one  man, 
wounded  several,  and  shocked  all  of  us.  Two 
of  the  men  managed  to  "swing"  a  *'blighty" 
case  out  of  it.  I  could  have  done  the  same  if 
I  had  been  wise  enough. 

I  think  I  ought  to  say  a  word  right  here 
about  the  psychology  of  the  Tommy  in  swing- 
ing a  "blighty"  case. 

It  is  the  one  first,  last,  and  always  ambition 
of  the  Tommy  to  get  back  to  Blighty.  Usually 
he  isn't  "out  there"  because  he  wants  to  be 
but  because  he  has  to  be.  He  is  a  patriot  all 
right.  His  love  of  Blighty  shows  that.  He 
will  fight  like  a  bag  of  wildcats  when  he  gets 
where  the  fighting  is,  but  he  isn't  going  around 
looking  for  trouble.  He  knows  that  his  officers 
will  find  that  for  him  a-plenty. 

^Mien  he  gets  letters  from  home  and  knows 
that  the  wife  or  the  "nippers"  or  the  old 
mother  is  sick,  he  wants  to  go  home.  And  so 
he  puts  in  his  time  hoping  for  a  wound  that 
will  be   "cushy"   enough   not  to  discommode 


FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS     119 

him  much  and  that  will  be  bad  enough  to 
swing  Blighty  on.  Sometimes  when  he  wants 
very  much  to  get  back  he  stretches  his  con- 
science to  the  limit  —  and  it  is  pretty  elastic 
anyhow  —  and  he  fakes  all  sorts  of  illness. 
The  M.  O.  is  usually  a  bit  too  clever  for  Tommy, 
however,  and  out  and  out  fakes  seldom  get  by. 
Sometimes  they  do,  and  in  the  most  unexpected 
cases. 

I  had  a  man  named  Isadore  Epstein  in  my 
section  who  was  instrumental  in  getting  B  light  j 
for  himself  and  one  other.  Issy  was  a  tailor 
by  trade.  He  was  no  fighting  man  and  didn't 
pretend  to  be,  and  he  didn't  care  who  knew  it. 
He  was  wild  to  get  a  "blighty  one"  or  shell 
shock,  or  anything  that  would  take  him  home. 

One  morning  as  we  were  preparing  to  go 
over  the  top,  and  the  men  were  a  little  jumpy 
and  nervous,  I  heard  a  shot  behind  me,  and  a 
bullet  chugged  into  the  sandbags  beside  my 
head.  I  whirled  around,  my  first  thought 
being  that  some  one  of  our  own  men  was 
trying  to  do  me  in.  This  is  a  thing  that  some- 
times happens  to  unpopular  officers  and  less 
frequently  to  the  men.     But  not  in  this  case. 


120    FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

It  was  Issy  Epstein.  He  had  been  monkey- 
ing with  his  rifle  and  had  shot  himself  in  the 
hand.  Of  course,  Issy  was  at  once  under 
suspicion  of  a  self-inflicted  wound,  which  is 
one  of  the  worst  crimes  in  the  calendar.  But 
the  suspicion  was  removed  instantly.  Issy 
was  hopping  around,  raising  a  terrific  row. 

"Oi,  oi,"  he  wailed.  "I'm  ruint.  I'm  mint. 
My  thimble  finger  is  gone.  My  thimble 
finger !     I'm  ruint.     Oi,  oi,  oi,  oi." 

The  poor  fellow  was  so  sincerely  desolated 
over  the  loss  of  his  necessary  finger  that  I 
couldn't  accuse  him  of  shooting  himself  in- 
tentionally. I  detailed  a  man  named  Bealer 
to  take  Issy  back  to  a  dressing  station.  Well, 
Bealer  never  came  back. 

Months  later  in  England  I  met  up  with  Ep- 
stein and  asked  about  Bealer.  It  seems  that 
after  Issy  had  been  fixed  up,  the  surgeon  turned 
to  Bealer  and  said  : 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

Bealer  happened  to  be  dreaming  of  some- 
thing else  and  didn't  answer. 

"I  say,"  barked  the  doctor,  "speak  up. 
What's  wrong?" 


FmST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS    121 

Bealer  was  startled  and  jumped  and  begun 
to  stutter. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  surgeon.  "Shell 
shock." 

Bealer  was  bright  enough  and  quick  enough 
after  that  to  play  it  up  and  was  tagged  for 
Blighty.  He  had  it  thrust  upon  him.  And 
you  can  bet  he  grabbed  it  and  thanked  his 
lucky  stars. 

We  had  been  on  Mill  Street  a  day  and  a 
night  when  an  order  came  for  our  company 
to  move  up  to  the  second  line  and  to  be  ready 
to  go  over  the  top  the  next  day.  At  first 
there  was  the  usual  grousing,  as  there  seemed 
to  be  no  reason  why  our  company  should  be 
picked  from  the  whole  battalion.  We  soon 
learned  that  all  hands  were  going  over,  and 
after  that  we  felt  better. 

We  got  our  equipment  on  and  started  up  to 
the  second  line.  It  was  right  here  that  I  got 
my  first  dose  of  real  honest-to-goodness  modern 
war.  The  big  push  had  been  on  all  summer, 
and  the  whole  of  the  Somme  district  was 
battered  and  smashed. 

Going  up  from  Mill  Street  there  were  no 


122     FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

communication  trenches.  We  were  right  out 
in  the  open,  exposed  to  rifle  and  machine-gun 
fire  and  to  shrapnel,  and  the  Boches  were 
fairly  raining  it  in  on  the  territory  they  had 
been  pushed  back  from  and  of  which  they  had 
the  range  to  an  inch.  We  went  up  under  that 
steady  fire  for  a  full  hour.  The  casualties 
were  heavy,  and  the  galling  part  of  it  was 
that  we  couldn't  hurry,  it  was  so  dark.  Every 
time  a  shell  burst  overhead  and  the  shrapnel 
pattered  in  the  dirt  all  about,  I  kissed  myself 
good-by  and  thought  of  the  baked  beans  at 
home.  Men  kept  falling,  and  I  wished  I 
hadn't  enlisted. 

When  we  finally  got  up  to  the  trench,  believe 
me,  we  didn't  need  any  orders  to  get  in.  We 
relieved  the  Black  Watch,  and  they  encouraged 
us  by  telling  us  they  had  lost  over  half  their 
men  in  that  trench,  and  that  Fritz  kept  a  con- 
stant fire  on  it.  They  didn't  need  to  tell  us. 
The  big  boys  were  coming  over  all  the  time. 

The  dead  here  were  enough  to  give  you  the 
horrors.  I  had  never  seen  so  many  before 
and  never  saw  so  many  afterwards  in  one 
place.     They   were   all   over   the   place,   both 


FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS     123 

Germans  and  our  own  men.     And  in  all  states 
of  mutilation  and  decomposition. 

There  were  arms  and  legs  sticking  out  of 
the  trench  sides.  You  could  tell  their  national- 
ity by  the  uniforms.  The  Scotch  predomi- 
nated. And  their  dead  lay  in  the  trenches  and 
outside  and  hanging  over  the  edges.  I  think 
it  was  here  that  I  first  got  the  real  meaning 
of  that  old  quotation  about  the  curse  of  a 
dead  man's  eye.  With  so  many  lying  about, 
there  were  always  eyes  staring  at  you. 

Sometimes  a  particularly  wide-staring  corpse 
would  seem  to  follow  you  with  his  gaze,  like 
one  of  these  posters  with  the  pointing  finger 
that  they  use  to  advertise  Liberty  Bonds. 
We  would  cover  them  up  or  turn  them  over. 
Here  and  there  one  would  have  a  scornful 
death  smile  on  his  lips,  as  though  he  were 
laughing  at  the  folly  of  the  whole  thing. 
.  The  stench  here  was  appalling.  That  fright- 
ful, sickening  smell  that  strikes  one  in  the 
face  like  something  tangible.  Ugh !  I  im- 
mediately grew  dizzy  and  faint  and  had  a 
mad  desire  to  run.  I  think  if  I  hadn't  been 
a  non-com  with  a  certain  small  amount  of  re- 


124     FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

sponsibility  to  live  up  to,  I  should  have  gone 
crazy. 

I  managed  to  pull  myself  together  and 
placed  my  men  as  comfortably  as  possible. 
The  Germans  were  five  hundred  yards  away, 
and  there  was  but  little  danger  of  an  attack, 
so  comparatively  few  had  to  "stand  to." 
The  rest  took  to  the  shelters. 

I  found  a  little  two-man  shelter  that  every- 
body else  had  avoided  and  crawled  in.  I 
crowded  up  against  a  man  in  there  and  spoke 
to  him.  He  didn't  answer  and  then  suddenly 
I  became  aware  of  a  stench  more  powerful 
than  ordinary.  I  put  out  my  hand  and  thrust 
it  into  a  slimy,  cold  mess.  I  had  found  a 
dead  German  with  a  gaping,  putrefying  wound 
in  his  abdomen.  I  crawled  out  of  that  shelter, 
gagging  and  retching.  This  time  I  simply 
couldn't  smother  my  impulse  to  run,  and  run 
I  did,  into  the  next  traverse,  where  I  sank 
weak  and  faint  on  the  fire  step.  I  sat  there 
the  rest  of  the  night,  regardless  of  shells,  my 
mind  milling  wildly  on  the  problem  of  war 
and  the  reason  thereof  and  cursing  myself 
for  a  fool, 


'A 

a 


FIRST  SIGHT  OF  TIIE  TANKS     125 

It  was  very  early  in  the  morning  when  Wells 
shook  me  up  with,  "Hi  sye,  Darby,  wot  the 
bKnkin'  blazes  is  that  noise?" 

We  listened,  and  away  from  the  rear  came 
a  tremendous  whirring,  burring,  rumbling  buzz, 
like  a  swarm  of  giant  bees.  I  thought  of  every- 
thing from  a  Zeppelin  to  a  donkey  engine  but 
couldn't  make  it  out.  Blofeld  ran  around  the 
corner  of  a  traverse  and  told  us  to  get  the 
men  out.  He  didn't  know  what  was  coming 
and  wasn't  taking  any  chances. 

It  was  getting  a  little  light  though  heavily 
misty.  We  waited,  and  then  out  of  the  gray 
blanket  of  fog  waddled  the  great  steel  mon- 
sters that  we  were  to  know  afterwards  as  the 
"tanks."     I  shall  never  forget  it. 

In  the  half  darkness  they  looked  twice  as 
big  as  they  really  were.  They  lurched  for- 
ward, slow,  clumsy  but  irresistible,  nosing 
down  into  shell  holes  and  out,  crushing  the 
unburied  dead,  sliding  over  mere  trenches  as 
though  they  did  not  exist. 

There  were  five  in  all.  One  passed  directly 
over  us.  W^e  scuttled  out  of  the  way,  and 
the  men  let  go  a  cheer.    For  we  knew  that 


126    FIRST  SIGHT  OF  THE  TANKS 

here  was  something  that  could  and  would 
win  battles. 

The  tanks  were  an  absolutely  new  thing  to 
us.  Their  secret  had  been  guarded  so  carefully 
even  in  our  own  army  that  our  battalion  had 
heard  nothing  of  them. 

But  we  didn't  need  to  be  told  that  they 
would  be  effective.  One  look  was  enough  to 
convince  us.     Later  it  convinced  Fritzie. 


CHAPTER  X 

Following  the  Tanks  into  Battle 

rff^HE  tanks  passed  beyond  us  and  half- 
way up  to  the  first  Kne  and  stopped. 
Trapdoors  in  the  decks  opened,  and  the  crews 
poured  out  and  began  to  pile  sandbags  in 
front  of  the  machines  so  that  when  day  broke 
fully  and  the  mists  lifted,  the  enemy  could 
not  see  what  had  been  brought  up  in  the  night. 

Day  dawned,  and  a  frisky  little  breeze  from 
the  west  scattered  the  fog  and  swept  the  sky 
clean.  There  wasn't  a  cloud  by  eight  o'clock. 
The  sun  shone  bright,  and  we  cursed  it,  for 
if  it  had  been  rainy  the  attack  would  not  have 
been  made. 

We  made  the  usual  last  preparations  that 
morning,  such  as  writing  letters  and  delivering 
farewell  messages ;  and  the  latest  rooks  made 
their  wills  in  the  little  blanks  provided  for  the 
purpose  in  the  back  of  the  pay  books.  We 
judged    from    the    number    of    dead    and    the 


m       FOLLOWING  THE  TAN1CS 

evident  punishment  other  divisions  had  taken 
there  that  the  chances  of  coming  back  would 
be  sHm.  Around  nine  o'clock  Captain  Green 
gave  us  a  little  talk  that  confirmed  our  sus- 
picions that  the  day  was  to  be  a  hard  one. 
He  said,  as  nearly  as  I  can  remember : 
"Lads,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  there  is  to 
be  a  most  important  battle  —  one  of  the  most 
important  in  the  whole  war.  High  Wood  out 
there  commands  a  view  of  the  whole  of  this 
part  of  the  Somme  and  is  most  valuable. 
There  are  estimated  to  be  about  ten  thou- 
sand Germans  in  that  wood  and  in  the  sur- 
rounding supports.  The  positions  are  mostly 
of  concrete  with  hundreds  of  machine  guns 
and  field  artillery.  Our  heavies  have  for 
some  reason  made  no  impression  on  them, 
and  regiment  after  regiment  has  attempted 
to  take  the  woods  and  failed  with  heavy  losses. 
Now  it  is  up  to  the  47th  Division  to  do  the 
seemingly  impossible.  Zero  is  at  eleven.  We 
go  over  then.  The  best  of  luck  and  God  bless 
you." 

We  were  all  feeling  pretty  sour  on  the  world 
when  the  sky  pilot  came  along  and  cheered  us  up. 


FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS        1^9 

He  was  a  good  little  man,  that  chaplain, 
brave  as  they  make  'em.  He  always  went 
over  the  top  with  us  and  was  in  the  thick  of 
the  fighting,  and  he  had  the  military  cross 
for  bravery.  He  passed  down  the  line,  giving 
us  a  slap  on  the  back  or  a  hand  grip  and  started 
us  singing.  No  gospel  hymns  either,  but  any 
old  rollicking,  good-natured  song  that  he  hap- 
pened to  think  of  that  would  loosen  things 
up  and  relieve  the  tension. 

Somehow  he  made  you  feel  that  you  wouldn't 
mind  going  to  hell  if  he  was  along,  and  you 
knew  that  he'd  be  willing  to  come  if  he  could 
do  any  good.  A  good  httle  man!  Peace  to 
his  ashes. 

At  ten  o'clock  things  busted  loose,  and  the 
most  intense  bombardment  ever  known  in 
warfare  up  to  that  time  began.  Thousands 
of  guns,  both  French  and  English,  in  fact 
every  available  gun  within  a  radius  of  fifteen 
miles,  poured  it  in.  In  the  Bedlamitish  din 
and  roar  it  was  impossible  to  hear  the  next 
man  unless  he  put  his  mouth  up  close  to  your 
ear  and  yelled. 

My  ear  drums  ached,  and  I  thought  I  should 


130        FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS 

go  insane  if  the  racket  didn't  stop.  I  was 
frightfully  nervous  and  scared,  but  tried  not 
to  show  it.  An  officer  or  a  non-com  must 
conceal  his  nervousness,  though  he  be  dying 
with  fright. 

The  faces  of  the  men  were  hard-set  and  pale. 
Some  of  them  looked  positively  green.  They 
smoked  fag  after  fag,  lighting  the  new  ones 
on  the  butts. 

All  through  the  bombardment  Fritz  was 
comparatively  quiet.  He  was  saving  all  his 
for  the  time  when  we  should  come  over.  Prob- 
ably, too,  he  was  holed  up  to  a  large  extent 
in  his  concrete  dug-outs.  I  looked  over  the 
top  once  or  twice  and  wondered  if  I,  too, 
would  be  lying  there  unburied  with  the  rats 
and  maggots  gnawing  me  into  an  unrecognizable 
mass.  There  were  moments  in  that  hour  from 
ten  to  eleven  when  I  was  distinctly  sorry  for 
myself. 

The  time,  strangely  enough,  went  fast  — 
as  it  probably  does  with  a  condemned  man  in 
his  last  hour.  At  zero  minus  ten  the  word 
went  down  the  line  "Ten  to  go"  and  we  got 
to  the  better  positions  of  the  trench  and  se- 


FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS        151 

cured  our  footing  on  the  side  of  the  parapet 
to  make  our  cHmb  over  when  the  signal  came. 
Some  of  the  men  gave  their  bayonets  a  last 
fond  rub,  and  I  looked  to  my  bolt  action  to 
see  that  it  worked  well.  I  had  ten  rounds  in 
the  magazine,  and  I  didn't  intend  to  rely  too 
much  on  the  bayonet.  At  a  few  seconds  of 
eleven  I  looked  at  my  wrist  watch  and  was 
afflicted  again  with  that  empty  feeling  in  the 
solar  plexus.  Then  the  whistles  shrilled;  I 
blew  mine,  and  over  we  went. 

To  a  disinterested  spectator  who  was  far 
enough  up  in  the  air  to  be  out  of  range  it 
must  have  been  a  wonderful  spectacle  to 
see  those  thousands  of  men  go  over,  wave 
after  wave. 

The  terrain  was  level  out  to  the  point  where 
the  little  hill  of  High  Wood  rose  covered  with 
the  splintered  poles  of  what  had  once  been  a 
forest.  This  position  and  the  supports  to  the 
left  and  rear  of  it  began  to  fairly  belch  ma- 
chine-gun and  shell  fire.  If  Fritz  had  been 
quiet  before,  he  gave  us  all  he  had  now. 

Our  battalion  went  over  from  the  second 
trench,  and  we  got  the  cream  of  it. 


132        FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS 

The  tanks  were  just  ahead  of  us  and  lum- 
bered along  in  an  imposing  row.  They  lurched 
down  into  deep  craters  and  out  again,  tipped 
and  reeled  and  listed,  and  sometimes  seemed 
as  though  they  must  upset ;  but  they  came  up 
each  time  and  went  on  and  on.  And  how  slow 
they  did  seem  to  move !  Lord,  I  thought  we 
should  never  cover  that  five  or  six  hundred  yards. 

The  tank  machine  guns  were  spitting  fire 
over  the  heads  of  our  first  wave,  and  their 
Hotchkiss  guns  were  rattling.  A  beautiful 
creeping  barrage  preceded  us.  Row  after 
row  of  shells  burst  at  just  the  right  distance 
ahead,  spewing  gobs  of  smoke  and  flashes  of 
flame,  made  thin  by  the  bright  sunlight.  Half 
a  dozen  airplanes  circled  like  dragonflies  up 
there  in  the  blue. 

There  was  a  tank  just  ahead  of  me.  I  got 
behind  it.  And  marched  there.  Slow !  God, 
how  slow !  Anyhow,  it  kept  off  the  machine- 
gun  bullets,  but  not,  the  shrapnel.  It  was 
breaking  over  us  in  clouds.  I  felt  the  stunning 
patter  of  the  fragments  on  my  tin  hat,  cringed 
under  it,  and  wondered  vaguely  why  it  didn't 
do  me  in. 


FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS        138 

Men  in  the  front  wave  were  going  down 
like  tenpins.  Off  there  diagonally  to  the  right 
and  forward  I  glimpsed  a  blinding  burst,  and 
as  much  as  a  whole  platoon  went  down. 

Around  me  men  were  dropping  all  the  time 
—  men  I  knew.  I  saw  Dolbsie  clawing  at  his 
throat  as  he  reeled  forward,  falling.  I  saw 
Vickers  double  up,  drop  his  rifle,  and  somer- 
sault, hanging  on  to  his  abdomen. 

A  hundred  yards  away,  to  the  right,  an 
officer  walked  backwards  with  an  automatic 
pistol  balanced  on  his  finger,  smiling,  pulling 
his  men  along  like  a  drum  major.  A  shell  or 
something  hit  him.  He  disappeared  in  a 
welter  of  blood  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  front 
file  fell  with  him. 

I  thought  we  must  be  nearly  there  and 
sneaked  a  look  around  the  edge  of  the  tank. 
A  traversing  machine  gun  raked  the  mud, 
throwing  up  handfuls,  and  I  heard  the  gruff 
"row,  row"  of  flattened  bullets  as  they  rico- 
cheted off  the  steel  armor.  I  ducked  back, 
and  on  we  went. 

Slow  !  Slow  !  I  found  myself  planning  what 
I  would  do  when  I  got  to  the  front  trenches 


154        FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS 

—  if  we  ever  did.  There  would  be  a  grand 
rumpus,  and  I  would  click  a  dozen  or  more. 

And  then  we  arrived. 

I  don't  suppose  that  trip  across  No  Man's 
Land  behind  the  tanks  took  over  five  minutes, 
but  it  seemed  like  an  hour. 

At  the  end  of  it  my  participation  in  the 
battle  of  High  Wood  ended.  No,  I  wasn't 
wounded.  But  when  we  reached  the  Boche  front 
trenches  a  strange  thing  happened.  There  was 
no  fight  worth  mentioning.  The  tanks  stopped 
over  the  trenches  and  blazed  away  right  and  left 
with  their  all-around  traverse. 

A  few  Boches  ran  out  and  threw  silly  little 
bombs  at  the  monsters.  The  tanks,  noses 
in  air,  moved  slowly  on.  And  then  the  Gray- 
backs  swarmed  up  out  of  shelters  and  dug-outs, 
literally  in  hundreds,  and  held  up  their  hands, 
whining  "Mercy,  kamarad." 

We  took  prisoners  by  platoons.  Blofeld 
grabbed  me  and  turned  over  a  gang  of  thirty 
to  me.  We  searched  them  rapidly,  cut  their 
suspenders  and  belts,  and  I  started  to  the 
rear  with  them.  They  seemed  glad  to  go. 
So  was  I. 


FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS        135 

As  we  hurried  back  over  the  five  hundred 
yards  that  had  been  No  Man's  Land  and 
was  now  British  ground,  I  looked  back  and 
saw  the  irresistible  tanks  smashing  their  way 
through  the  tree  stumps  of  High  Wood,  still 
spitting  death  and  destruction  in  three  directions. 

Going  back  we  were  under  almost  as  heavy 
fire  as  we  had  been  coming  up.  When  we 
were  about  half-way  across,  shrapnel  burst 
directly  over  our  party  and  seven  of  the  prison- 
ers were  killed  and  half  a  dozen  wounded.  I 
myself  was  unscratched.  I  stuck  my  hand 
inside  my  tunic  and  patted  Dinky  on  the  back, 
sent  up  a  prayer  for  some  more  luck  like  that, 
and  carried  on. 

After  getting  my  prisoners  back  to  the  rear, 
I  came  up  again  but  couldn't  find  my  battalion. 
I  threw  in  with  a  battalion  of  Australians  and 
was  with  them  for  twenty-four  hours. 

\ATien  I  found  my  chaps  again,  the  battle  of 
High  W^ood  was  pretty  well  over.  Our  com- 
pany for  some  reason  had  suffered  very  few 
casualties,  less  than  twenty-nine.  Company 
B,  however,  had  been  practically  wiped  out, 
losing  all  but  thirteen  men  out  of  two  hundred. 


136        FOLLOWING  THE  TANKS 

The  other  two  companies  had  less  than  one 
hundred  casualties.  We  had  lost  about  a 
third  of  our  strength.  It  is  a  living  wonder 
to  me  that  any  of  us  came  through. 

I  don't  believe  any  of  us  would  have  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  tanks. 

The  net  result  of  the  battle  of  High  Wood 
was  that  our  troops  carried  on  for  nearly  two 
miles  beyond  the  position  to  be  taken.  They 
had  to  fall  back  but  held  the  wood  and  the 
heights.  Three  of  the  tanks  were  stalled  in 
the  farther  edge  of  the  woods  —  out  of  fuel  — 
and  remained  there  for  three  days  unharmed 
under  the  fire  of  the  German  guns. 

Eventually  some  one  ventured  out  and  got 
some  juice  into  them,  and  they  returned  to 
our  lines.  The  tanks  had  proved  themselves, 
not  only  as  effective  fighting  machines,  but  as 
destroyers  of  German  morale. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Prisoners 

TT^OR  weeks  after  our  first  introduction  to 
the  tanks  they  were  the  chief  topic  of 
conversation  in  our  battalion.  And,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  we  had  seen  the  monsters 
go  into  action,  had  seen  v/hat  they  did  and  the 
effect  they  had  on  the  Boche,  the  details  of 
their  building  and  of  their  mechanism  remained 
a  mystery  for  a  long  time. 

For  weeks  about  all  we  knew  about  them 
was  what  we  gathered  from  their  appearance 
as  they  reeled  along,  camouflaged  with  browns 
and  yellows  like  great  toads,  and  that  they 
were  named  with  quaint  names  like  "Cr^me 
de  Menthe"  and  "Diplodocus." 

Eventually  I  met  with  a  member  of  the 
crews  who  had  manned  the  tanks  at  the  battle 
of  High  Wood,  and  I  obtained  from  him  a 
description  of  some  of  his  sensations.     It  was 


138  PRISONERS 

a  thing  we  had  all  wondered  about,  —  how  the 
men  inside  felt  as  they  went  over. 

My  tanker  was  a  young  fellow  not  over 
twenty-five,  a  machine  gunner,  and  in  a  little 
estaminet,  over  a  glass  of  citron  and  soda,  he 
told  me  of  his  first  battle. 

"Before  we  went  in,"  he  said,  "I  was  a  little 
bit  uncertain  as  to  how  we  were  coming  out. 
We  had  tried  the  old  boats  out  and  had  given 
them  every  reasonable  test.  We  knew  how 
much  they  would  stand  in  the  way  of  shells 
on  top  and  in  the  way  of  bombs  or  mines 
underneath.  Still  there  was  all  the  difference 
between  rehearsal  and  the  actual  going  on  the 
stage. 

"When  we  crawled  in  through  the  trapdoor 
for  the  first  time  over,  the  shut-up  feeling  got 
me.  I'd  felt  it  before  but  not  that  way.  I 
got  to  imagining  what  would  happen  if  we  got 
stalled  somewhere  in  the  Boche  lines,  and  they 
built  a  fire  around  us.  That  was  natural, 
because  it's  hot  inside  a  tank  at  the  best. 
You  mustn't  smoke  either.  I  hadn't  minded 
that  in  rehearsal,  but  in  action  I  was  crazy 
for  a  fag. 


PRISONERS  139 

'*We  went  across,  you  remember,  at  eleven, 
and  the  sun  was  shining  bright.  We  were 
parboiled  before  we  started,  and  when  we  got 
going  good  it  was  like  a  Turkish  bath.  I  was 
stripped  to  the  waist  and  was  dripping.  Be- 
sides that,  when  we  begun  to  give  'em  hell, 
the  place  filled  with  gas,  and  it  was  stifling. 
The  old  boat  pitched  a  good  deal  going  into 
shell  holes,  and  it  was  all  a  man  could  do  to 
keep  his  station.  I  put  my  nose  up  to  my  loop- 
hole to  get  air,  but  only  once.  The  machine- 
gun  bullets  were  simply  rattling  on  our  hide. 
Tock,  tock,  tock  they  kept  drumming.  The 
first  shell  that  hit  us  must  have  been  head  on 
and  a  direct  hit.  There  was  a  terrific  crash, 
and  the  old  girl  shook  all  over,  —  seemed  to 
pause  a  little  even.  But  no  harm  was  done. 
After  that  we  breathed  easier.  We  hadn't 
been  quite  sure  that  the  Boche  shells  wouldn't 
do  us  in. 

"By  the  time  we  got  to  the  Boche  trenches, 
we  knew  he  hadn't  anything  that  could  hurt 
us.  We  just  sat  and  raked  him  and  laughed 
and  wished  it  was  over,  so  we  could  get  the 
air." 


140  PRISONERS 

I  had  already  seen  the  effect  of  the  tanks 
on  the  Germans.  The  batch  of  prisoners  who 
had  been  turned  over  to  me  seemed  dazed. 
One  who  spoke  EngHsh  said  in  a  quavering 
voice ; 

"Gott  in  Himmel,  Kamarad,  how  could  one 
endure?  These  things  are  not  human.  They 
are  not  fair." 

That  "fair"  thing  made  a  hit  with  me  after 
going  against  tear  gas  and  hearing  about  liquid 
fire  and  such  things. 

The  great  number  of  the  prisoners  we  took 
at  High  Wood  were  very  scared  looking  at 
first  and  very  surly.  They  apparently  ex- 
pected to  be  badly  treated  and  perhaps  tor- 
tured. They  were  tractable  enough  for  the 
most  part.  But  they  needed  watching,  and 
they  got  it  from  me,  as  I  had  heard  much  of 
the  treachery  of  the  Boche  prisoners. 

On  the  way  to  the  rear  with  my  bunch,  I 
ran  into  a  little  episode  which  showed  the 
foolishness  of  trusting  a  German,  —  partic- 
ularly an  officer. 

I  was  herding  my  lot  along  when  we  came 
up  with  about  twelve  in  charge  of  a  young 


PRISONERS  141 

fellow  from  a  Leicester  regiment.  He  was 
a  private,  and  as  most  of  his  non-commis- 
sioned oflBcers  had  been  put  out  of  action, 
he  was  acting  corporal.  We  were  walking 
together  behind  the  prisoners,  swapping  notes 
on  the  fight,  when  one  of  his  stopped,  and  no 
amount  of  coaxing  would  induce  him  to  go 
any  farther.  He  was  an  oiEcer,  of  what  rank 
I  don't  know,  but  judging  from  his  age  prob- 
ably a  lieutenant. 

Finally  Crane  —  that  was  the  Leicester 
chap  —  went  up  to  the  officer,  threatened  him 
with  his  bayonet,  and  let  him  know  that  he 

cvS  due  for  the  cold  steel  if  he  didn't  get  up 
and  hike. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Fritz  pulled  an  automatic 
from  under  his  coat  —  he  evidently  had  not 
been  carefully  searched  —  and  aimed  it  at 
Crane.  Crane  dove  at  him  and  grabbed  his 
wrist,  but  was  too  late.  The  gun  went  off 
and  tore  away  Crane's  right  cheek.  He  didn't 
go  down,  however,  and  before  I  could  get  in 
without  danger  to  Crane,  he  polished  off  the 
officer  on  the  spot. 

The    prisoners    looked    almost    pleased.     I 


142  PRISONERS 

suppose  they  knew  the  officer  too  welh  I 
bandaged  Crane  and  offered  to  take  his  pris- 
oners in,  but  he  insisted  upon  carrying  on. 
He  got  very  weak  from  loss  of  blood  after  a 
bit,  and  I  had  two  of  the  Boches  carry  him  to 
the  nearest  dressing  station,  where  they  took 
care  of  him.  I  have  often  wondered  whether 
the  poor  chap  "clicked"  it. 

Eventually  I  got  my  batch  of  prisoners 
back  to  headquarters  and  turned  them  over. 
I  want  to  say  a  word  right  here  as  to  the  treat- 
ment of  the  German  prisoners  by  the  British. 
In  spite  of  the  verified  stories  of  the  brutality 
shown  to  the  Allied  prisoners  by  the  Hun,  the 
English  and  French  have  too  much  humanity 
to  retaliate.  Time  and  again  I  have  seen 
British  soldiers  who  were  bringing  in  Germans 
stop  and  spend  their  own  scanty  pocket  money 
for  their  captives'  comfort.  I  have  done  it 
myself. 

Almost  inevitably  the  Boche  prisoners  were 
expecting  harsh  treatment.  I  found  several 
who  said  that  they  had  been  told  by  their 
officers  that  they  would  be  skinned  alive  if 
they   surrendered  to  the  English.     They   be- 


PRISONERS  14S 

lieved  it,  and  you  could  hardly  blame  the  poor 
devils  for  being  scared. 

Whenever  we  were  taking  prisoners  back, 
we  always,  unless  we  were  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry,  took  them  to  the  nearest  canteen  run 
by  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  or  by  one  of  the  artillery 
companies,  and  here  we  would  buy  English 
or  American  fags.  And  believe  me,  they  liked 
them.  Any  one  who  has  smoked  the  tobacco 
issued  to  the  German  army  could  almost  under- 
stand a  soldier  surrendering  just  to  get  away 
from  it. 

Usually,  too,  we  bought  bread  and  sweets, 
if  we  could  stand  the  price.  The  Heinies 
would  bolt  the  food  down  as  though  they  were 
half  starved.  And  it  was  perfectly  clear  from 
the  way  they  went  after  the  luxuries  that  they 
got  little  more  than  the  hard  necessities  of 
army  fare. 

At  the  battle  of  High  Wood  the  prisoners 
we  took  ran  largely  to  very  young  fellows  and  to 
men  of  fifty  or  over.  Some  of  the  youngsters 
said  they  were  only  seventeen  and  they  looked 
not  over  fifteen.  Many  of  them  had  never 
shaved. 


144  PRISONERS 

I  think  the  sight  of  those  war-worn  boys, 
haggard  and  hard,  already  touched  with  cruelty 
and  blood  lust,  brought  home  to  me  closer 
than  ever  before  what  a  hellish  thing  war  is, 
and  how  keenly  Germany  must  be  suffering, 
along  with  the  rest  of  us. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

I  Become  a  Bomber 

"1  7[  THEN  I  found  my  battalion,  the  battle 
of  High  Wood  had  pretty  well  quieted 
down.  We  had  taken  the  position  we  went 
after,  and  the  fighting  was  going  on  to  the 
north  and  beyond  the  Wood.  The  Big  Push 
progressed  very  rapidly  as  the  summer  drew 
to  a  close.  Our  men  were  holding  one  of  the 
captured  positions  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Wood. 

It  must  have  been  two  days  after  we  went 
over  the  top  with  the  tanks  that  Captain  Green 
had  me  up  and  told  me  that  I  was  promoted. 
At  least  that  was  what  he  called  it.  I  differed 
with  him,  but  didn't  say  so. 

The  Captain  said  that  as  I  had  had  a  course 
in  bombing,  he  thought  he  would  put  me  in 
the  Battalion  Bombers. 

I  protested  that  the  honor  was  too  great 


146  I  BECOME   A  BOMBER 

and  that  I  really  didn't  think  I  was  good 
enough. 

After  that  the  Captain  said  that  he  didn't 
tJiink  I  was  going  in  the  bombers.  He  knew 
it.     I  was  elected  ! 

I  didn't  take  any  joy  whatever  in  the  ap- 
pointment, but  orders  are  orders  and  they 
have  to  be  obeyed.  The  bombers  are  called 
the  "Suicide  Club"  and  are  well  named.  The 
mortality  in  this  branch  of  the  service  is  as 
great  if  not  greater  than  in  any  other. 

In  spite  of  my  feelings  in  the  matter,  I 
accepted  the  decision  cheerfully  —  like  a  man 
being  sentenced  to  be  electrocuted  —  and  man- 
aged to  convey  the  impression  to  Captain 
Green  that  I  was  greatly  elated  and  that  I 
looked  forward  to  future  performances  with 
large  relish.  After  that  I  went  back  to  my 
shelter  and  made  a  new  will. 

That  very  night  I  was  called  upon  to  take 
charge  of  a  bombing  party  of  twelve  men. 
A  lieutenant,  Mr.  May,  one  of  the  bravest 
men  I  ever  knew,  was  to  be  of  the  party  and 
in  direct  command.  I  was  to  have  the  selec- 
tion of  the  men. 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  147 

Captain  Green  had  me  up  along  with  Lieu- 
tenant May  early  in  the  evening,  and  as  nearly 
as  I  can  remember  these  were  his  instructions : 

"Just  beyond  High  Wood  and  to  the  left 
there  is  a  sap  or  small  trench  leading  to  the 
sunken  road  that  lies  between  the  towns  of 
Albert  and  Bapaume.  That  position  com- 
mands a  military  point  that  we  find  necessary 
to  hold  before  we  can  make  another  attack. 
The  Germans  are  in  the  trench.  They  have 
two  machine  guns  and  will  raise  the  devil  with 
us  unless  we  get  them  out.  It  will  cost  a  good 
many  lives  if  we  attempt  to  take  the  position 
by  attack,  but  we  are  under  the  impression 
that  a  bombing  party  in  the  night  on  a  surprise 
attack  will  be  able  to  take  it  with  little  loss  of 
life.  Take  your  twelve  men  out  there  at  ten 
o'clock  and  take  that  trench!  You  will  take 
only  bombs  with  you.  You  and  Mr,  May 
will  have  revolvers.  After  taking  the  trench, 
consolidate  it,  and  before  morning  there  will 
be  relief  sent  out  to  you.     The  best  of  luck!" 

The  whole  thing  sounded  as  simple  as 
ABC.  All  we  had  to  do  was  go  over  there 
and  take  the  place.     The  captain  didn't  say 


148  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

how  many  Germans  there  would  be  nor  what 
they  would  be  doing  while  we  were  taking  their 
comfortable  little  position.  Indeed  he  seemed 
to  quite  carelessly  leave  the  Boche  out  of  the 
reckoning.  I  didn't.  I  knew  that  some  of 
us,  and  quite  probably  most  of  us,  would 
never  come  back. 

I  selected  my  men  carefully,  taking  only  the 
coolest  and  steadiest  and  the  best  bombers. 
Most  of  them  were  men  who  had  been  at 
Dover  with  me.  I  felt  like  an  executioner 
when  I  notified  them  of  their  selection. 

At  nii.e-thirty  we  were  ready,  stripped  to 
the  lightest  of  necessary  equipment.  Each  of 
the  men  was  armed  with  a  bucket  of  bombs. 
Some  carried  an  extra  supply  in  satchels,  so 
we  knew  there  would  be  no  shortage  of  Millses. 

Lieutenant  May  took  us  out  over  the  top 
on  schedule  time,  and  we  started  for  the  posi- 
tion to  be  taken.  We  walked  erect  but  in  the 
strictest  silence  for  about  a  thousand  yards. 
At  that  time  the  distances  were  great  on  the 
Somme,  as  the  Big  Push  was  in  full  swing,  and 
the  advance  had  been  fast.  Trench  systems 
had  been  demolished,  and  in  many  places  there 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  149 

were  only  shell  holes  and  isolated  pieces  of 
trench  defended  by  machine  guns.  The  whole 
movement  had  progressed  so  far  that  the  lines 
were  far  apart  and  broken,  so  much  so  that 
in  many  cases  the  fighting  had  come  back  to  the 
open  work  of  early  in  the  war. 

Poking  along  out  there,  I  had  the  feeling 
that  we  were  an  awfully  long  way  from  the 
comparative  safety  of  our  main  body  —  too 
far  away  for  comfort.  We  were.  Any  doubts 
on  the  matter  disappeared  before  morning. 

At  the  end  of  the  thousand  yards  Lieutenant 
May  gave  the  signal  to  lie  down.  We  lay  still 
half  an  hour  or  so  and  then  crawled  forward. 
Fortunately  there  was  no  barbed  wire,  as  all 
entanglements  had  been  destroyed  by  the  terrific 
bombardment  that  had  been  going  on  for 
weeks.  The  Germans  made  no  attempt  to 
repair  it  nor  did  we. 

We  crawled  along  for  about  ten  minutes, 
and  the  Lieutenant  passed  the  word  in  whis- 
pers to  get  ready,  as  we  were  nearly  on  them. 
Each  of  us  got  out  a  bomb,  pulled  the  pin  with 
our  teeth,  and  waited  for  the  signal.  It  was 
fairly  still.     Away  off  to  the  rear,  guns  were 


150  I  BECOME  A  BOIMBER 

going,  but  they  seemed  a  long  way  off.  For- 
ward, and  away  off  to  the  right  beyond  the 
Wood,  there  was  a  lot  of  rifle  and  machine-gun 
fire,  and  we  could  see  the  sharp  little  lavender 
stabs  of  flame  like  electric  flashes.  It  was 
light  enough  so  that  we  could  see  dimly. 

Just  ahead  we  could  hear  the  murmur  of 
the  Huns  as  they  chatted  in  the  trench.  They 
hadn't  seen  us.  Evidently  they  didn't  sus- 
pect and  were  more  or  less  careless. 

The  Lieutenant  waited  until  the  sound  of 
voices  was  a  little  louder  than  before,  the 
Boches  .  idently  being  engaged  in  a  fireside 
argument  of  some  kind,  and  then  he  jumped  to 
his  feet  shouting,  "Now  then,  my  lads.  All 
together!" 

We  came  up  all  standing  and  let  'em  go. 
It  was  about  fifteen  yards  to  Fritz,  and  that 
is  easy  to  a  good  bomber,  as  my  men  all  were. 
A  yell  of  surprise  and  fright  went  up  from  the 
trench,  and  they  started  to  run.  We  spread 
out  so  as  to  get  room,  gave  them  another 
round  of  Millses,  and  rushed. 

The  trench  wasn't  really  a  trench  at  all.  It 
was  the  remains  of  a  perfectly  good  one,  but 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  151 

had  been  bashed  all  to  pieces,  and  was  now 
only  five  or  six  shell  craters  connected  by  the 
ruined  traverses.  At  no  point  was  it  more 
than  waist  high  and  in  some  places  only  knee 
high.  We  sv/armed  into  what  was  left  of  the 
trench  and  after  the  Heinies.  There  must 
have  been  forty  of  them,  and  it  didn't  take  them 
long  to  find  out  that  we  were  only  a  dozen. 
Then  they  came  back  at  us.  We  got  into  a 
crooked  bit  of  traverse  that  was  in  relatively 
good  shape  and  threw  up  a  barricade  of  sand- 
bags. There  was  any  amount  of  them  lying 
about. 

The  Germans  gave  us  a  bomb  or  two  and 
considerable  rifle  fire,  and  we  beat  it  around 
the  corner  of  the  bay.  Then  we  had  it  back 
and  forth,  a  regular  seesaw  game.  We  would 
chase  them  back  from  the  barricade,  and  then 
they  would  rush  us  and  back  we  would  go. 
After  we  had  lost  three  men  and  Lieutenant 
May  had  got  a  slight  wound,  we  got  desperate 
and  got  out  of  the  trench  and  rushed  them  for 
further  orders.  We  fairly  showered  them  as 
we  followed  them  up,  regardless  of  danger  to 
ourselves.     All  this  scrap  through  they  hadn't 


152  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

done  anything  with  the  machine  guns.  One 
was  in  our  end  of  the  trench,  and  we  found  that 
the  other  was  out  of  commission.  They  must 
have  been  short  of  small-arm  ammunition  and 
bombs,  because  on  that  last  strafing  they  cleared 
out  and  stayed. 

After  the  row  was  over  we  counted  noses 
and  found  four  dead  and  three  slightly  wounded, 
including  Lieutenant  May.  I  detailed  two 
men  to  take  the  wounded  and  the  Lieutenant 
back.  That  left  four  of  us  to  consolidate  the 
position.  The  Lieutenant  promised  to  return 
with  relief,  but  as  it  turned  out  he  was  worse 
than  he  thought,  and  he  didn't  get  back. 

I  turned  to  and  inspected  the  position. 
It  was  pretty  hopeless.  There  really  wasn't 
much  to  consolidate.  The  whole  v/orks  was 
knocked  about  and  was  only  fit  for  a  temporary 
defence.  There  were  about  a  dozen  German 
dead,  and  we  searched  them  but  found  nothing 
of  value.  So  we  strengthened  our  cross-trench 
barricade  and  waited  for  the  relief.  It  never 
came. 

When  it  began  to  get  light,  the  place  looked 
even  more  discouraging.     There  was  little  or 


1  BECOME  A  BOMBER  153 

no  cover.  We  knew  that  unless  we  got  some 
sort  of  concealment,  the  airplanes  would  spot 
us,  and  that  we  would  get  a  shell  or  two.  So 
we  got  out  the  entrenching  tools  and  dug  into 
the  side  of  the  best  part  of  the  shallow  trav- 
erse. We  finally  got  a  slight  overhang  scraped 
out.  We  didn't  dare  go  very  far  under  for 
fear  that  it  would  cave.  We  got  some  sand- 
bags up  on  the  sides  and  three  of  us  crawled 
into  the  shelter.  The  other  man  made  a  sim- 
ilar place  for  himself  a  little  distance  off. 

The  day  dawned  clear  and  bright  and  gave 
promise  of  being  hot.  i\.long  about  seven 
we  began  to  get  hungry.  A  Tommy  is  always 
hungry,  whether  he  is  in  danger  or  not.  When 
we  took  account  of  stock  and  found  that  none 
of  us  had  brought  along  "iron  rations",  we 
discovered  that  we  were  all  nearly  starved. 
Killing  is  hungry  work. 

We  had  only  ourselves  to  blame.  We  had 
been  told  repeatedly  never  to  go  anywhere 
without  "iron  rations",  but  Tommy  is  a  good 
deal  of  a  child  and  unless  you  show  him  the 
immediate  reason  for  a  thing  he  is  likely  to 
disregard  instructions.     I  rather  blamed  my- 


154  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

self  in  this  case  for  not  seeing  that  the  men 
had  their  emergency  food.  In  fact,  it  was 
my  duty  to  see  that  they  had.  But  I  had 
overlooked  it.  And  I  hadn't  brought  any 
myself. 

The  "iron  ration"  consists  of  a  pound  of 
*' bully  beef",  a  small  tin  containing  tea  and 
sugar  enough  for  two  doses,  some  Oxo  cubes, 
and  a  few  biscuits  made  of  reinforced  concrete. 
They  are  issued  for  just  such  an  emergency  as 
we  were  in  as  we  lay  in  our  isolated  dug-out. 
The  soldier  is  apt  to  get  into  that  sort  of  situa- 
tion almost  any  time,  and  it  is  folly  ever  to  be 
without  the  ration. 

Well,  we  didn't  have  ours,  and  we  knew 
we  wouldn't  get  any  before  night,  if  we  did 
then.  One  thing  we  had  too  much  of.  That 
was  rum.  The  night  before  a  bunch  of  us  had 
been  out  on  a  ration  party,  and  we  had  come 
across  a  Brigade  Dump.  This  is  a  station 
where  rations  are  left  for  the  various  com- 
panies to  come  and  draw  their  own,  also  ammo 
and  other  necessities.  There  was  no  one 
about,  and  we  had  gone  through  the  outfit. 
We  found  two  cases  of  rum,  four  gallons  in  a 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  155 

case,  and  we  promptly  filled  our  bottles,  more 
than  a  pint  each. 

Tommy  is  always  very  keen  on  his  rum. 
The  brand  used  in  the  army  is  high  proof  and 
burns  like  fire  going  down,  but  it  is  warming. 
The  regular  ration  as  served  after  a  cold  sentry 
go  is  called  a  "tot."  It  is  enough  to  keep 
the  cold  out  and  make  a  man  wish  he  had 
another.  The  average  Tommy  will  steal  rum 
whenever  he  can  without  the  danger  of  getting 
caught. 

It  happened  that  all  four  of  us  were  in  the 
looting  party  and  had  our  bottles  full.  Also 
it  happened  that  we  were  all  normally  quite 
temperate  and  hadn't  touched  our  supply. 

So  we  all  took  a  nip  and  tightened  up  our 
belts.  Then  we  took  another  and  another. 
We  lay  on  our  backs  with  our  heads  out  of  the 
burrow,  packed  in  like  sardines  and  looking 
up  at  the  sky.  Half  a  dozen  airplanes  came 
out  and  flew  over.  We  had  had  a  hard  night 
and  we  all  dozed  off,  at  least  I  did,  and  I  guess 
the  others  did  also. 

Around  nine  we  all  waked  up,  and  Bones 
—  he  was  the  fellow  in  the  middle  —  began  to 


156  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

complain  of  thirst.  Then  we  all  took  another 
nip  and  wished  it  was  water.  We  discussed 
the  matter  of  crawling  down  to  a  muddy  pool 
at  the  end  of  the  traverse  and  having  some  out 
of  that,  but  passed  it  up  as  there  was  a  dead 
man  lying  in  it.  Bones,  who  was  pretty  well 
educated  —  he  once  asked  me  if  I  had  visited 
Emerson's  home  and  was  astounded  that  I 
hadn't  —  quoted  from  Kipling  something  to 
the  effect  that. 

When  you  come  to  slaughter 
You'll  do  your  work  on  water, 
An'  you'll  lick  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im 
that's  got  it. 

Then  Bones  cursed  the  rum  and  took  an- 
other nip.     So  did  the  rest  of  us. 

There  was '  a  considerable  bombardment 
going  on  all  the  forenoon,  but  few  shells  came 
anywhere  near  us.  Some  shrapnel  burst  over 
us  a  little  way  off  to  the  right,  and  some  of  the 
fragments  fell  in  the  trench,  but  on  the  whole 
the  morning  was  uncomfortable  but  not  dan- 
gerous. 

Around  half-past  ten  we  saw  an  airplane 
fight   that   was   almost   worth  the  forenoon's 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  157 

discomfort.  A  lot  of  them  had  been  circhng 
around  ever  since  daybreak.  When  the  fight 
started,  two  of  our  planes  were  nearly  over 
us.  Suddenly  we  saw  three  Boclie  planes  vol- 
planing down  from  away  up  above.  They  grew 
bigger  and  bigger  and  opened  with  their  guns 
when  they  were  nearly  on  top  of  our  fellows. 
No  hits.  Then  all  five  started  circling  for 
top  position.  One  of  the  Boches  started  to 
fall  and  came  down  spinning,  but  righted  him- 
self not  more  than  a  thousand  feet  up.  Our 
anti  air-craft  guns  opened  on  him,  and  we  could 
see  the  shells  bursting  with  little  cottony  puffs 
all  around.  Some  of  the  shrapnel  struck  near 
us.  They  missed  him,  and  up  he  went  again. 
Presently  all  five  came  circling  lower  and 
lower,  jockeying  for  position  and  spitting 
away  with  their  guns.  As  they  all  got  to  the 
lower  levels,  the  anti  air-craft  guns  stopped  fir- 
ing, fearing  to  get  our  men. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  Huns  burst  into  flames 
and  came  toppling  down  behind  his  lines,  his 
gas  tank  ablaze.  Almost  immediately  one  of 
ours  dropped,  also  burning  and  behind  the 
Boche  lines. 


158  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

After  that  it  was  two  to  one,  and  the  fight 
lasted  more  than  ten  minutes.  Then  down 
went  a  Hun,  not  afire  but  tumbling  end  over 
end  behind  our  lines.  I  learned  afterwards 
that  this  fellow  was  unhurt  and  was  taken 
prisoner.  That  left  it  an  even  thing.  We 
could  see  half  a  dozen  planes  rushing  to  attack 
the  lone  Boche.  He  saw  them  too.  For  he 
turned  tail  and  skedaddled  for  home. 

Bonesie  began  to  philosophize  on  the  cold- 
bloodedness of  air  fighting  and  really  worked 
himself  up  into  an  almost  optimistic  frame  of 
mind.  He  was  right  in  the  midst  of  a  flowery 
oration  on  our  comparative  safety,  "nestling 
on  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth",  when,  with- 
out any  warning  whatever,  there  came  a  per- 
fect avalanche  of  shell  all  around  us. 

I  knew  perfectly  well  that  we  were  caught. 
The  shells,  as  near  as  we  could  see,  were  com- 
ing from  our  side.  Doubtless  our  people 
thought  that  the  trench  was  still  manned  by 
Germans,  and  they  were  shelling  for  the  big 
noon  attack.  Such  an  attack  was  made,  as 
I  learned  afterwards,  but  I  never  saw  it. 

At  eleven  o'clock  I  looked  at  my  watch. 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  159 

Somehow  I  didn't  fear  death,  although  I  felt 
it  was  near.  Maybe  the  rum  was  working. 
I  turned  to  Bonesie  and  said,  "What  about 
that  safety  stuff,  old  top?" 

"Cheer,  cheer,  Darby,"  said  he.  "We  may 
pull  through  yet." 

"Don't  think  so,"  I  insisted.  "It's  us  for 
pushing  up  the  daisies.  Good  luck  if  we  don't 
meet  again !" 

I  put  my  hand  in  and  patted  Dinky  on  the 
back,  and  sent  up  another  little  prayer  for 
luck.  Then  there  was  a  terrific  shock,  and 
everything  went  black. 

When  I  came  out  of  it,  I  had  the  sensation 
of  struggling  up  out  of  water.  I  thought  for 
an  instant  that  I  was  drowning.  And  in  effect 
that  was  almost  what  was  happening  to  me. 
I  was  buried,  all  but  one  side  of  my  face.  A 
tremendous  weight  pressed  down  on  me,  and 
I  could  only  breathe  in  little  gasps. 

I  tried  to  move  my  legs  and  arms  and 
couldn't.  Then  I  wiggled  my  fingers  and  toes 
to  see  if  any  bones  were  broken.  They  wiggled 
all  right.  My  right  nostril  and  eye  were  full 
of  dirt;    also  my  mouth.     I  spit  out  the  dirt 


160  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

and  moved  my  head  until  my  nose  and  eye 
were  clear.     I  ached  all  over. 

It  was  along  toward  sundown.  Up  aloft 
a  single  airplane  was  winging  toward  our  lines. 
I  remember  that  I  wondered  vaguely  if  he  was 
the  same  fellow  who  had  been  fighting  just 
before  the  world  fell  in  on  me. 

I  tried  to  sing  out  to  the  rest  of  the  men, 
but  the  best  I  could  do  was  a  kind  of  loud 
gurgle.  There  was  no  answer.  My  head  was 
humming,  and  the  blood  seemed  to  be  burst- 
ing my  ears.  I  was  terribly  sorry  for  myself 
and  tried  to  pull  my  strength  together  for  a 
big  try  at  throwing  the  weight  off  my  chest, 
but  I  was  absolutely  helpless.  Then  again  I 
slid  out  of  consciousness. 

It  was  dark  when  I  struggled  up  through 
the  imaginary  water  again.  I  was  still  breath- 
ing in  gasps,  and  I  could  feel  my  heart  going 
in  great  thumps  that  hurt  and  seemed  to  shake 
the  ground.  My  tongue  was  curled  up  and 
dry,  and  fever  was  simply  burning  me  up. 
My  mind  was  clear,  and  I  wished  that  I  hadn't 
drunk  that  rum.  Finding  I  could  raise  my 
head  a  little,  I  cocked  it  up,  squinting  over 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  161 

my  cheek  bones  —  I  was  on  my  back  —  and 
could  catch  the  far-off  flicker  of  the  silver- 
green  flare  lights.  There  was  a  rattle  of  mus- 
ketry off  in  the  direction  where  the  Boche 
lines  ought  to  be.  From  behind  came  the 
constant  boom  of  big  guns.  I  lay  back  and 
watched  the  stars,  which  were  bright  and  un- 
commonly low.  Then  a  shell  burst  near  by, 
—  not  near  enough  to  hurt,  —  but  buried  as 
I  was  the  whole  earth  seemed  to  shake.  My 
heart  stopped  beating,  and  I  went  out  again. 

When  I  came  to  the  next  time,  it  was  still 
dark,  and  somebody  was  lifting  me  on  to  a 
stretcher.  My  first  impression  was  of  getting 
a  long  breath.  I  gulped  it  down,  and  with 
every  grateful  inhalation  I  felt  my  ribs  pain- 
fully snapping  back  into  place.  Oh,  Lady ! 
Didn't  I  just  eat  that  air  up. 

And  then,  having  gotten  filled  up  with  the 
long-denied  oxygen,  I  asked,  "Where's  the 
others  ?  " 

"Ayen't  no  bothers,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

And  there  weren't.  Later  I  reconstructed 
the  occurrences  of  the  night  from  what  I  wag 
told  by  the  rescuing  party. 


162  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

A  big  shell  had  slammed  down  on  us,  drill- 
ing Bonesie,  the  man  in  the  middle,  from  end 
to  end.  He  was  demolished.  The  shell  was 
a  *'dud",  that  is,  it  didn't  explode.  If  it  had, 
there  wouldn't  have  been  anything  whatever 
left  of  any  of  us.  As  it  was  our  overhang 
caved  in,  letting  sandbags  and  earth  down  on 
the  remaining  man  and  myself.  The  other 
man  was  buried  clean  under.  He  had  life 
in  him  still  when  he  was  dug  out  but  "went 
west"  in  about  ten  minutes. 

The  fourth  man  was  found  dead  from  shrap- 
nel. I  found,  too,  that  the  two  unwounded 
men  who  had  gone  back  with  Lieutenant  May 
had  both  been  killed  on  the  way  in.  So  out 
of  the  twelve  men  who  started  on  the  "suicide 
club"  stunt  I  was  the  only  one  left.  Dinky 
was  still  inside  my  tunic,  and  I  laid  the  luck 
all  to  him. 

Back  in  hospital  I  was  found  to  be  suffering 
from  shell  shock.  Also  my  heart  was  pushed 
out  of  place.  There  were  no  bones  broken, 
though  I  was  sore  all  over,  and  several  ribs 
were  pulled  around  so  that  it  was  like  a  knife 
thrust    at    every    breath.     Besides    that,    my 


I  BECO^IE  A  BOMBER  16S 

nerves  were  shattered.  I  jumped  a  foot  at 
the  slightest  noise  and  twitched  a  good  deal. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  I  asked  the  M.  O.  if 
I  would  get  Blighty  and  he  said  he  didn't 
think  so,  not  directly.  He  rather  thought 
that  they  would  keep  me  in  hospital  for  a 
month  or  two  and  see  how  I  came  out.  The 
oflScer  was  a  Canadian  and  had  a  sense  of 
humor  and  was  most  affable.  I  told  him  if 
this  jamming  wasn't  going  to  get  me  Blighty, 
I  wanted  to  go  back  to  duty  and  get  a  real 
one.  He  laughed  and  tagged  me  for  a  beach 
resort  at  Ault-Onival  on  the  northern  coast  of 
France. 

I  was  there  a  week  and  had  a  bully  time. 
The  place  had  been  a  fashionable  watering 
place  before  the  war,  and  when  I  was  there 
the  transient  population  was  largely  wealthy 
Belgians.  They  entertained  a  good  deal  and 
did  all  they  could  for  the  pleasure  of  the  four 
thousand  boys  who  were  at  the  camp.  The 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  had  a  huge  tent  and  spread  them- 
selves in  taking  care  of  the  soldiers.  There 
were  entertainments  almost  every  night,  mov- 
ing pictures,  and  music.     The  food  was  awfully 


164  I  BECOME  A  BOMBER 

good  and  the  beds  comfortable,  and  that 
pretty  nearly  spells  heaven  to  a  man  down 
from  the  front. 

Best  of  all,  the  bathing  was  fine,  and  it  was 
possible  to  keep  the  cooties  under  control,  — 
more  or  less.  I  went  in  bathing  two  and  three 
times  daily  as  the  sloping  shore  made  it  just 
as  good  at  low  tide  as  at  high. 

I  think  that  glorious  week  at  the  beach 
made  the  hardships  of  the  front  just  left 
behind  almost  worth  while.  My  chum.  Cor- 
poral Wells,  who  had  a  quaint  Cockney  phi- 
losophy, used  to  say  that  he  liked  to  have  the 
stomach  ache  because  it  felt  so  good  when  it 
stopped.  On  the  same  theory  I  became  nearly 
convinced  that  a  month  in  the  trenches  was 
good  fun  because  it  felt  so  good  to  get  out. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  I  was  better  but  still 
shaky.  I  started  pestering  the  M.  O.  to  tag 
me  for  Blighty.  He  wouldn't,  so  I  sprung  the 
same  proposition  on  him  that  I  had  on  the  doc- 
tor at  the  base,  —  to  send  me  back  to  duty 
if  he  couldn't  send  me  to  England.  The  brute 
took  me  at  my  word  and  sent  me  back  to  the 
battalion. 


I  BECOME  A  BOMBER  165 

I  rejoined  on  the  Somme  again  just  as  they 
were  going  back  for  the  second  time  in  that 
most  awful  part  of  the  line.  Many  of  the  old 
faces  were  gone.  Some  had  got  the  wooden 
cross,  and  some  had  gone  to  Blighty. 

I  sure  was  glad  when  old  Wellsie  hopped  out 
and  grabbed  me. 

"Gawd  lumme,  Darby,"  he  said.  "Hi  sye, 
an'  me  thinkin'  as  'ow  you  was  back  in  Blighty. 
An'  'ere  ye  are  yer  blinkin'  old  self.  Or  is  it 
yer  bloomin'  ghost.  I  awsks  ye.  Strike  me 
pink,  Yank.     I'm  glad." 

And  he  was.  At  that  I  did  feel  more  or  less 
ghostly.  I  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of  my 
confidence.  I  expected  to  "go  west"  on  the 
next  time  in.  And  that's  a  bad  way  to  feel 
out  there. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Back  on  the  Somme  Again 

\^ /"HEN  I  rejoined  the  battalion  they  were 

just  going  into  the  Somme  again  after 

a  two  weeks'  rest.     They  didn't  Hke  it  a  bit. 

"Gawd  lumme,"  says  Wellsie,  *"ave  we 
got  to  fight  th'  'ole  blinkin'  war.  Is  it  right? 
I  awsks  yer.     Is  it?" 

It  was  all  wrong.  We  had  been  told  after 
High  Wood  that  we  would  not  have  to  go  into 
action  again  in  that  part  of  the  line  but 
that  we  would  have  a  month  of  rest  and  after 
that  would  be  sent  up  to  the  Ypres  sector. 
"Wipers"  hadn't  been  any  garden  of  roses  early 
in  the  war,  but  it  was  paradise  now  compared 
with  the  Somme. 

It  was  a  sad  lot  of  men  when  we  swung  out 
on  the  road  again  back  to  the  Somme,  and 
there  was  less  singing  than  usual.  That  first 
night  we  remained  at  Mametz  Wood.  We 
figured  that  we  would  get  to  kip  while  the  kip- 


BACK  ON   THE   SOMME  AGAIN    167 

ping  was  good.  There  were  some  old  Boche 
dug-outs  in  fair  condition,  and  we  were  in  a 
fair  way  to  get  comfortable.     No  luck! 

We  were  hardly  down  to  a  good  sleep  when 
C  company  was  called  to  fall  in  v/ithout  equip- 
ment, and  we  knew  that  meant  fatigue  of 
some  sort.  I  have  often  admired  the  unknown 
who  invented  that  word  "fatigue"  as  applied 
in  a  military  term.  He  used  it  as  a  disguise 
for  just  plain  hard  work.  It  means  anything 
whatever  in  the  way  of  duty  that  does  not 
have  to  do  directly  with  the  manning  of  the 
trenches. 

This  time  we  clicked  a  burial  fatigue.  It 
was  my  first.  I  never  want  another.  I  took 
a  party  of  ten  men  and  we  set  out,  armed  with 
picks  and  shovels,  and,  of  course,  rifles  and 
bandoliers  (cloth  pockets  containing  fifty 
rounds  of  ammo). 

We  hiked  three  miles  up  to  High  Wood  and 
in  the  early  morning  began  the  job  of  getting 
some  of  the  dead  under  ground.  We  were 
almost  exactly  in  the  same  place  from  which 
we  had  gone  over  after  the  tanks.  I  kept 
expecting  all  the  time  to  run  across  the  bodies 


168    BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN 

of  some  of  our  own  men.  It  was  a  most  un- 
pleasant feeling.  -'S 

Some  cleaning  up  liad  already  been  done, 
so  the  place  was  not  so  bad  as  It  had  been, 
but  it  was  bad  enough.  The  advance  had  gone 
forward  so  far  that  we  were  practically  out  of 
shell  range,  and  we  were  safe  working. 

The  burial  method  was  to  dig  a  pit  four 
feet  deep  and  big  enough  to  hold  six  men. 
Then  we  packed  them  in.  The  worst  part  of 
it  was  that  most  of  the  bodies  were  pretty 
far  gone  and  in  the  falling  away  stage.  It 
was  hard  to  move  them.  I  had  to  put  on  my 
gas  mask  to  endure  the  stench  and  so  did  some 
of  the  other  men.  Some  who  had  done  this 
work  before  rather  seemed  to  like  it. 

I  would  search  a  body  for  identification 
marks  and  jot  down  the  data  found  on  a  piece 
of  paper.  When  the  man  was  buried  under, 
I  would  stick  a  rifle  up  over  him  and  tuck  the 
record  into  the  trap  in  the  butt  of  the  gun  where 
the  oil  bottle  is  carried. 

When  the  pioneers  came  up,  they  would 
remove  the  rifle  and  substitute  a  little  wooden 
cross    with    the    name    painted    on    it.     The 


BACK  ON  THE   SOMI^iE  AGAIN    169 

indifference  with  which  the  men  soon  came  to 
regard  this  burial  fatigue  was  amazing.  I 
remember  one  incident  of  that  first  morning, 
a  thing  that  didn't  seem  at  all  shocking  at  the 
time,  but  which,  looking  back  upon  it,  illus- 
trates the  matter-of-factness  of  the  soldier's 
viewpoint  on  death. 

"Hi  sye,  Darby,"  sang  out  one  fellow. 
"Hi  got  a  blighter  'ere  wif  only  one  leg.  Wot'll 
Hi  do  wif  'im?" 

"Put  him  under  with  only  one,  you  blink- 
ing idiot,"  said  I. 

Presently  he  called  out  again,  this  time 
with  a  little  note  of  satisfaction  and  triumph 
in  his  voice. 

"Darby,  Hi  sye.  I  got  a  leg  for  that 
bleeder.     Fits  'im  perfect." 

Well,  I  went  over  and  took  a  look  and  to 
my  horror  found  that  the  fool  had  stuck  a 
German  leg  on  the  body,  high  boot  and  all. 
I  wouldn't  stand  for  that  and  had  it  out  again. 
I  wasn't  going  to  send  a  poor  fellow  on  his  last 
pilgrimage  with  any  Boche  leg,  and  said  so. 
Later  I  heard  this  undertaking  genius  of  a 
Tommy  grousing  and  muttering  to  himself. 


170    BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN 

"Cawn't  please  Darby,"  says  he,  "no  mat- 
ter wot.  Fawncy  the  bhghter'd  feel  better 
wif  two  legs,  if  one  was  Boche.  It's  a  fair 
crime  sendin'  'im  hover  the  river  wif  only 
one. 

I  was  sure  thankful  when  that  burial  fatigue 
was  over,  and  early  in  the  forenoon  we  started 
back  to  rest. 

Rest,  did  I  say?  Not  that  trip.  We  were 
hardly  back  to  Mametz  and  down  to  breakfast 
when  along  came  an  order  to  fall  in  for  a  carry- 
ing party.  All  that  day  we  carried  boxes  of 
Millses  up  to  the  dump  that  was  by  High 
Wood,  three  long  miles  over  hard  going. 
Being  a  corporal  had  its  compensations  at 
this  game,  as  I  had  no  carrying  to  do;  but 
inasmuch  as  the  bombs  were  moved  two  boxes 
to  a  man,  I  got  my  share  of  the  hard  work 
helping  men  out  of  holes  and  lending  a  hand 
when  they  were  mired. 

Millses  are  packed  with  the  bombs  and 
detonators  separate  in  the  box,  and  the  men 
are  very  careful  in  the  handling  of  them.  So 
the  moving  of  material  of  this  kind  is  wearing. 

Another  line  of  man-killers  that  we  had  to 


BACK  ON  THE  SOM^JIE  AGAIN    171 

move  were  "toffy  apples."  This  quaint  toy 
is  a  huge  bomb,  perfectly  round  and  weighing 
sixty  pounds,  with  a  long  rod  or  pipe  which 
inserts  into  the  mor  \. :.r.  Toffy  apples  are  about 
the  awkwardest  thing  imaginable  to  carry. 

This  carrying  stunt  went  on  for  eight  long 
days  and  nights.  We  worked  on  an  average 
sixteen  hours  a  day.  It  rained  nearly  all 
the  time,  and  we  never  got  dried  out.  The 
food  was  awful,  as  the  advance  had  been  so 
fast  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  up  the 
supplies,  and  the  men  in  the  front  trenches 
had  the  first  pick  of  the  grub.  It  was  also  up 
to  us  to  get  the  water  up  to  the  front.  The 
method  on  this  was  to  use  the  five-gallon 
gasoline  cans.  Sometimes  they  were  washed 
out,  oftener  they  weren't.  Always  the  water 
tasted  of  gas.  We  got  the  same  thing,  and 
several  times  I  became  sick  drinking  the  stuff. 

When  that  eight  days  of  carrying  was  over, 
we  were  so  fed  up  that  we  didn't  care  whether 
we  clicked  or  not.  Maybe  it  was  good  mental 
preparation  for  what  was  to  come,  for  on  top 
of  it  all  it  turned  out  that  we  were  to  go  over 
the  top  in  another  big  attack. 


172    BACK  ON   THE   SOMME  AGAIN 

When  we  got  that  news,  I  got  Dinky  out 
and  scolded  him.  Maybe  I'd  better  tell  you 
all  about  Dinky  before  I  go  any  farther. 
Soldiers  are  rather  prone  to  superstitions. 
Relieved  of  all  responsibility  and  with  most 
of  their  thinking  done  for  them,  they  revert 
surprisingly  quick  to  a  state  of  more  or  less 
savage  mentality.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
to  call  the  state  childlike.  At  any  rate  they 
accumulate  a  lot  of  fool  superstitions  and  hang 
to  them.  The  height  of  folly  and  the  superla- 
tive invitation  to  bad  luck  is  lighting  three 
fags  on  one  match.  When  that  happens  one 
of  the  three  is  sure  to  click  it  soon. 

As  one  out  of  any  group  of  three  anywhere 
stands  a  fair  chance  of  "getting  his",  fag  or 
no  fag,  the  thing  is  reasonably  sure  to  work 
out  according  to  the  popular  behef.  Most 
every  man  has  his  unlucky  day  in  the  trenches. 
One  of  mine  was  Monday.  The  others  were 
Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday,  Sat- 
urday, and  Sunday. 

Practically  every  soldier  carries  some  kind 
of  mascot  or  charm.  A  good  many  are  cruci- 
fixes  and  rehgious   tokens.     Some   are  coins. 


BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN    173 

Corporal  Wells  had  a  sea  shell  with  three  little 
black  spots  on  it.  He  considered  three  his 
lucky  number.  Thirteen  was  mine.  My  mas- 
cot was  the  aforesaid  and  much  revered  Dinky. 
Dinky  was  and  is  a  small  black  cat  made  of 
velvet.  He's  entirely  flat  except  his  head, 
which  is  becomingly  round  with  yellow  glass 
eyes.  I  carried  Dinky  inside  my  tunic  always 
and  felt  safer  with  him  there.  He  hangs  at 
the  head  of  my  bed  now  and  I  feel  better  with 
him  there.  I  realize  perfectly  that  all  this 
sounds  like  tommyrot,  and  that  superstition 
may  be  a  relic  of  barbarism  and  ignorance. 
Never  mind !  Wellsie  sized  the  situation  up 
one  day  when  we  were  talking  about  this  very 
thing. 

"Maybe  my  shell  ayen't  doin'  me  no  good," 
says  Wells.  "Maybe  Dinky  ayen't  doin'  you 
no  good.  But  'e  ayen't  doin'  ye  no  'arm.  So 
'ang  on  to  'im." 

I  figure  that  if  there's  anything  in  war  that 
"ayen't  doin'  ye  no  'arm",  it  is  pretty  good 
policy  to  "'ang  on  to  it." 

It  was  Sunday  the  eighth  day  of  October 
that  the  order  came  to  move  into  what  was 


174    BACK  ON   THE  SOMME  AGAIN 

called  the  *'0.  G.  I.",  that  is,  the  old  German 
first  line.  You  will  understand  that  this  was 
the  line  the  Bodies  had  occupied  a  few  days 
before  and  out  of  which  they  had  been  driven 
in  the  Big  Push.  In  front  of  this  trench  was 
Eaucort  Abbaye,  which  had  been  razed  with 
the  aid  of  the  tanks. 

We  had  watched  this  battle  from  the  rear 
from  the  slight  elevation  of  High  Wood,  and 
it  had  been  a  wonderful  sight  to  see  other  men 
go  out  over  the  top  without  having  ourselves 
to  think  about.  They  had  poured  out,  wave 
after  wave,  a  large  part  of  them  Scotch  with 
their  kilted  rumps  swinging  in  perfect  time,  a 
smashing  barrage  going  on  ahead,  and  the 
tanks  lumbering  along  v>dth  a  kind  of  clumsy 
majesty.  When  they  hit  the  objective,  the 
tanks  crawled  in  and  made  short  work  of  it. 

The  infantry  had  hard  work  of  it  after  the 
positions  were  taken,  as  there  were  numerous 
underground  caverns  and  passages  which  had 
to  be  mopped  out.  This  was  done  by  drop- 
ping smoke  bombs  in  the  entrances  and  smok- 
ing the  Boches  out  like  bees. 

When  we  came  up,  we  inherited  these  under- 


BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN    175 

ground  slielters,  and  they  were  mighty  com- 
fortable after  the  kipping  in  the  muck.  There 
were  a  lot  of  souvenirs  to  be  picked  up,  and 
almost  everybody  annexed  helmets  and  other 
truck  that  had  been  left  behind  by  the  Ger- 
mans. 

Sometimes  it  was  dangerous  to  go  after 
souvenirs  too  greedily.  The  inventive  Hun 
had  a  habit  of  fixing  up  a  body  with  a  bomb 
under  it  and  a  tempting  wrist  watch  on  the 
hand.  If  you  started  to  take  the  watch,  the 
bomb  went  off,  and  after  that  you  didn't  care 
what  time  it  was. 

I  accumulated  a  number  of  very  fine  razors, 
and  one  of  the  saw-tooth  bayonets  the  Boche 
pioneers  use.  This  is  a  perfectly  hellish  weapon 
that  i&lips  in  easily  and  mangles  terribly  when 
it  is  withdrawn.  I  had  thought  that  I  would 
have  a  nice  collection  of  souvenirs  to  take  to 
Blighty  if  I  ever  got  leave.  I  got  the  leave  all 
right,  and  shortly,  but  the  collection  stayed 
behind. 

The  dug-out  that  Number  10  drew  was 
built  of  concrete  and  was  big  enough  to  accom- 
modate   the    entire    platoon.     We    were    well 


176    BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN 

within  the  Boche  range  and  early  in  the  day 
had  several  casualties,  one  of  them  a  chap 
named  Stransfield,  a  young  Yorkshireman 
who  was  a  very  good  friend  of  mine.  Stransie 
was  sitting  on  the  top  step  cleaning  his  rifle 
and  was  blown  to  pieces  by  a  falling  shell. 
After  that  we  kept  to  cover  all  day  and  slept 
all  the  time.  We  needed  it  after  the  exhaust- 
ing work  of  the  past  eight  days. 

It  was  along  about  dark  when  I  was  awak- 
ened by  a  runner  from  headquarters,  which 
was  in  a  dug-out  a  little  way  up  the  line,  with 
word  that  the  platoon  commanders  were 
wanted.  I  happened  to  be  in  command  of  the 
platoon,  as  Mr.  Blofeld  was  acting  second  in 
command  of  the  company.  Sergeant  Page  was 
away  in  Havre  as  instructor  for  a  month,  and 
I  was  next  senior. 

I  thought  that  probably  this  was  merely 
another  detail  for  some  fatigue,  so  I  asked 
Wells  if  he  would  go.  He  did  and  in  about 
half  an  hour  came  back  with  a  face  as  long  as 
my  arm.  I  was  sitting  on  the  fire  step  clean- 
ing my  rifle  and  Wellsie  sank  dejectedly  down 
beside  me. 


BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN    177 

"Darby,"  he  sighed  hopelessly,  "wot  th* 
blinkin'  'ell  do  you  think  is  up  now  ?  " 

I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  and  said  so.  I  had, 
however,  as  the  educated  Bones  used  to  say  "a 
premonition  of  impending  disaster."  As  a  pre- 
monitor  I  was  a  success.     Disaster  was  right. 

Wellsie  sighed  again  and  spilled  the  news. 

"We're  goin'  over  th'  bleedin'  top  at  nine. 
We  don't  'ave  to  carry  no  tools.  We're  in  the 
first  bloomin'  wave." 

Going  without  tools  was  supposed  to  be  a 
sort  of  consolation  for  being  in  the  first  wave. 
The  other  three  waves  carry  either  picks  or 
shovels.  They  consolidate  the  trenches  after 
they  have  been  taken  by  the  first  wave.  That 
is,  they  turn  the  trench  around,  facing  the  other 
way,  to  be  ready  for  a  counter  attack.  It  is  a 
miserable  job.  The  tools  are  heavy  and  awk- 
ward, and  the  last  waves  get  the  cream  of  the 
artillery  fire,  as  the  Boche  naturally  does  not 
want  to  take  the  chance  of  shelling  the  first 
wave  for  fear  of  getting  his  own  men.  How- 
ever, the  first  wave  gets  the  machine-gun 
fire  and  gets  it  good.  At  that  the  first  wave 
is  the  preference.     I  have  heard  hundreds  of 


178    BACK  ON  THE  SOMME  AGAIN 

men  say  so.  Probably  the  reason  is  that  a 
bullet,  unless  it  is  explosive,  makes  a  relatively 
clean  wound,  while  a  shell  fragment  may  man- 
gle fearfully. 

Wells  and  I  were  talking  over  the  infernal 
injustice  of  the  situation  when  another  runner 
arrived  from  the  Sergeant  Major's,  ordering 
us  up  for  the  rum  issue.  I  went  up  for  the 
rum  and  left  Wells  to  break  the  news  about 
going  over. 

I  got  an  extra  large  supply,  as  the  Sergeant 
Major  was  good  humored.  It  was  the  last 
rum  he  ever  served.  I  got  enough  for  the  full 
platoon  and  then  some,  which  was  a  lot,  as 
the  platoon  was  well  down  in  numbers  owing 
to  casualties.  I  went  among  the  boys  with  a 
spoon  and  the  rum  in  a  mess  tin  and  served 
out  two  tots  instead  of  the  customary  one. 
After  that  all  hands  felt  a  little  better,  but  not 
much.  They  were  all  fagged  out  after  the 
week's  hard  work.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a 
more  discouraged  lot  getting  ready  to  go  over. 
For  myself  I  didn't  seem  to  care  much,  I  was 
in  such  rotten  condition  physically.  I  rather 
hoped  it  would  be  my  last  time. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The  Last  Time  over  the  Top 

A  GENERAL  cleaning  of  rifles  started, 
•*■  although  it  was  dark.  Mine  was  al- 
ready in  good  shape,  and  I  leaned  it  against 
the  side  of  the  trench  and  went  below  for  the 
rest  of  my  equipment.  While  I  was  gone,  a 
shell  fragment  undid  all  my  work  by  smashing 
the  breech. 

I  had  seen  a  new  short  German  rifle  in  the 
dug-out  with  a  bayonet  and  ammo,  and  de- 
cided to  use  that.  I  hid  all  my  souvenirs, 
planning  to  get  them  when  I  came  out  if  I 
ever  came  out.  I  hadn't  much  nerve  left  after 
the  bashing  I  had  taken  a  fortnight  before 
and  didn't  hold  much  hope. 

Our  instructions  were  of  the  briefest.  It 
was  the  old  story  that  there  would  probably 
be  little  resistance,  if  any.  There  would  be  a 
few  machine  guns  to  stop  us,  but  nothing  more. 
The  situation  we  had  to  handle  was  this :     A 


180    THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP 

certain  small  sector  had  held  on  the  attacks 
of  the  few  previous  days,  and  the  line  had 
bent  back  around  it.  All  we  had  to  do  was 
to  straighten  the  line.  We  had  heard  this  old 
ghost  story  too  often  to  believe  a  word  of  it. 

Our  place  had  been  designated  where  we 
were  to  get  into  extended  formation,  and  our 
general  direction  was  clear.  We  filed  out  of 
the  trench  at  eight-thirty,  and  as  we  passed 
the  other  platoons,  —  we  had  been  to  the 
rear,  —  they  tossed  us  the  familiar  farewell 
hail,  "The  best  o'  luck,  mytie." 

We  soon  found  ourselves  in  the  old  sunken 
road  that  ran  in  front  of  Eaucort  Abbaye.  At 
this  point  we  were  not  under  observation,  as 
a  rise  in  the  ground  would  have  protected  us 
even  though  it  had  been  daylight.  The  moon 
was  shining  brilliantly,  and  we  knew  that  it 
would  not  be  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  sur- 
prise attack.  We  got  into  extended  formation 
and  waited  for  the  order  to  advance.  I  thought 
I  should  go  crazy  during  that  short  wait. 
Shells  had  begun  to  burst  over  and  around 
us,  and  I  was  sure  the  next  would  be  mine. 

Presently  one  burst  a  little  behind  me,  and 


THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP    181 

down  went  Captain  Green  and  the  Sergeant 
Major  with  whom  he  had  been  talking.  Cap- 
tain Green  died  a  few  days  later  at  Rouen, 
and  the  Sergeant  Major  lost  an  arm.  This 
was  a  hard  blow  right  at  the  start,  and  it 
spelled  disaster.  Everything  started  to  go 
wrong.  Mr.  Blofeld  was  in  command,  and 
another  officer  thought  that  he  was  in  charge. 
We  got  conflicting  orders,  and  there  was  one 
grand  mix-up.  Eventually  we  advanced  and 
went  straight  up  over  the  ridge.  We  walked 
slap-bang  into  perfectly  directed  fire.  Tor- 
rents of  machine-gun  bullets  crackled  about 
us,  and  we  went  forward  with  our  heads  down, 
like  men  facing  into  a  storm.  It  was  a  living 
marvel  that  any  one  could  come  through  it. 

A  lot  of  them  didn't.  Mr.  Blofeld,  who  was 
near  me,  leaped  in  the  air,  letting  go  a  hideous 
yell.  I  ran  to  him,  disregarding  the  instruc- 
tion not  to  stop  to  help  any  one.  He  was 
struck  in  the  abdomen  with  an  explosive 
bullet  and  was  done  for.  I  felt  terribly  about 
Mr.  Blofeld,  as  he  had  been  a  good  friend  to 
me.  He  was  the  finest  type  of  officer  of  the 
new  English  army,  the  rare  sort  who  can  be 


182    THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP 

democratic  and  yet  command  respect.  He  had 
talked  with  me  often,  and  I  knew  of  his  family 
and  home  life.  He  was  more  like  an  elder 
brother  to  me  than  a  superior  officer.  I  left 
Mr.  Blofeld  and  went  on. 

The  hail  of  bullets  grew  even  worse.  They 
whistled  and  cracked  and  squealed,  and  I  began 
to  wonder  why  on  earth  I  didn't  get  mine. 
Men  were  falling  on  all  sides  and  the  shrieks 
of  those  hit  were  the  worst  I  had  heard.  The 
darkness  made  it  worse,  and  although  I  had 
been  over  the  top  before  by  daylight  this  was 
the  last  limit  of  hellishness.  And  nothing  but 
plain,  unmixed  machine-gun  fire.  As  yet  there 
was  no  artillery  action  to  amount  to  anything. 

Once  again  I  put  my  hand  inside  my  tunic 
and  stroked  Dinky  and  said  to  him,  "For 
God's  sake,  Dink,  see  me  through  this  time.'* 
I  meant  it  too.  I  was  actually  praying,  —  to 
my  mascot.  I  realize  that  this  was  plain,  un- 
adulterated, heathenish  fetish  worship,  but  it 
shows  what  a  man  reverts  to  in  the  barbaric 
stress  of  war. 

By  this  time  we  were  within  about  thirty 
yards  of  the  Boche  parapet  and  could  see  them 


THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP    183 

standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  on  the  fire  step, 
swarms  of  them,  packed  in,  with  the  bayonets 
gleaming.  Machine  guns  were  emplaced  and 
vomiting  death  at  incredibly  short  intervals 
along  the  parapet.  Flares  were  going  up  con- 
tinuously, and  it  was  almost  as  light  as  day. 

,  We  were  terribly  outnumbered,  and  the 
casualties  had  already  been  so  great  that  I 
saw  we  were  in  for  the  worst  thing  we  had 
ever  known.  Moreover,  the  next  waves  hadn't 
appeared  behind  us. 

I  was  in  command,  as  all  the  officers  and 
non-coms  so  far  as  I  could  make  out  had 
snuffed.  I  signalled  to  halt  and  take  cover, 
my  idea  being  to  wait  for  the  other  waves  to 
catch  up.  The  men  needed  no  second  invita- 
tion to  lie  low.  They  rolled  into  the  shell 
holes  and  burrowed  where  there  was  no 
cover. 

I  drew  a  pretty  decent  hole  myself,  and  a 
man  came  pitching  in  on  top  of  me,  screaming 
horribly.  It  was  Corporal  Hoskins,  a  close 
friend  of  mine.  He  had  it  in  the  stomach  and 
clicked  in  a  minute  or  two. 

During  the  few  minutes  that  I  lay  in  that 


184    THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP 

hole,  I  suffered  the  worst  mental  anguish  I 
ever  knew.  Seeing  so  many  of  my  closest 
chums  go  west  so  horribly  had  nearly  broken 
me,  shaky  as  I  was  when  the  attack  started. 
I  was  dripping  with  sweat  and  frightfully 
nauseated.  A  sudden  overpowering  impulse 
seized  me  to  get  out  in  the  open  and  have  it 
over  with.     I  was  ready  to  die.  i 

Sooner  than  I  ought,  for  the  second  wave 
had  not  yet  shown  up,  I  shrilled  the  whistle 
and  lifted  them  out.  It  was  a  hopeless  charge, 
but  I  was  done.  I  would  have  gone  at  them 
alone.  Anything  to  close  the  act.  To  blazes 
with  everything ! 

As  I  scrambled  out  of  the  shell  hole,  there 
was  a  blinding,  ear-splitting  explosion  slightly 
to  my  left,  and  I  went  down.  I  did  not  lose 
consciousness  entirely.  A  red-hot  iron  was 
through  my  right  arm,  and  some  one  had  hit 
me  on  the  left  shoulder  with  a  sledge  hammer. 
I  felt  crushed,  —  shattered. 

My  impressions  of  the  rest  of  that  night 
are,  for  the  most  part,  vague  and  indistinct; 
but  in  spots  they  stand  out  clear  and  vivid. 
The  first  thing  I  knew  definitely  was  when 


THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP    185 

Smith  bent  over  me^  cutting  the  sleeve  out  of 
my  tunic. 

"It's  a  Blighty  one,"  says  Smithy.  That 
was  some  consolation.  I  was  back  in  the 
shell  hole,  or  in  another,  and  there  were  five 
or  six  other  fellows  piled  in  there  too.  All  of 
them  were  dead  except  Smith  and  a  man 
named  Collins,  v/ho  had  his  arm  clean  off,  and 
myself.  Smith  dressed  my  wound  and  Col- 
lins', and  said : 

"We'd  better  get  out  of  here  before  Fritz 
rushes  us.  The  attack  was  a  ruddy  failure, 
and  they'll  come  over  and  bomb  us  out  of 
here." 

Smith  and  I  got  out  of  the  hole  and  started 
to  crawl.  It  appeared  that  he  had  a  bullet 
through  the  thigh,  though  he  hadn't  said  any- 
thing about  it  before.  We  crawled  a  little  way, 
and  then  the  bullets  were  flying  so  thick  that 
I  got  an  insane  desire  to  run  and  get  away 
from  them.  I  got  to  my  feet  and  legged  it. 
So  did  Smith,  though  how  he  did  it  with  a 
wounded  thigh  I  don't  know. 

The   next   thing   I   remember   I   was   on   a 
stretcher.      The    beastly    thing    swayed    and 


186    THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE   TOP 

pitched,  and  I  got  seasick.  Then  came 
another  crash  directly  over  head,  and  out  I 
went  again.  When  I  came  to,  my  head  was 
as  clear  as  a  bell.  A  shell  had  burst  over  us 
and  had  killed  one  stretcher  bearer.  The 
other  had  disappeared.  Smith  was  there. 
He  and  I  got  to  our  feet  and  put  our  arms 
around  each  other  and  staggered  on.  The 
next  I  knew  I  was  in  the  Cough  Drop  dress- 
ing station,  so  called  from  the  peculiar  for- 
mation of  the  place.  We  had  tea  and  rum 
here  and  a  couple  of  fags  from  a  sergeant 
major  of  the  R.  A.  M.  C. 

After  that  there  was  a  ride  on  a  flat  car  on 
a  light  railway  and  another  in  an  ambulance 
with  an  American  driver.  Snatches  of  con- 
versation about  Broadway  and  a  girl  in  Newark 
floated  back,  and  I  tried  to  work  up  ambition 
enough  to  sing  out  and  ask  where  the  chap 
came  from.  So  far  I  hadn't  had  much  pain. 
When  we  landed  in  a  regular  dressing  station, 
the  M.  O.  gave  me  another  going  over  and 
said, 

"Blighty  for  you,  son."  I  had  a  piece  of 
shrapnel  or  something  through  the  right  upper 


THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP    187 

arm,  clearing  the  bone  and  making  a  hole 
about  as  big  as  a  half  dollar.  My  left  shoulder 
was  full  of  shrapnel  fragments,  and  began  to 
pain  like  fury.  More  tea.  More  rum.  More 
fags.  Another  faint.  When  I  woke  up  the 
next  time,  somebody  was  sticking  a  hypodermic 
needle  into  my  chest  with  a  shot  of  anti- 
lockjaw  serum,  and  shortly  after  I  was  tucked 
away  in  a  white  enameled  Red  Cross  train 
with  a  pretty  nurse  taking  my  temperature. 
I  loved  that  nurse.  She  looked  sort  of  cool 
and  holy. 

I  finally  brought  up  in  General  Hospital 
Number  12  in  Rouen.  I  was  there  four  days 
and  had  a  real  bath,  —  a  genuine  boiling  out. 
Also  had  some  shrapnel  picked  out  of  my 
anatomy.  I  got  in  fairly  good  shape,  though 
still  in  a  good  deal  of  dull  pain.  It  was  a  glad 
day  when  they  put  a  batch  of  us  on  a  train 
for  Havre,  tagged  for  Blighty.  We  went 
direct  from  the  train  to  the  hospital  ship, 
Carisbrook  Castle.  The  quarters  were  good, 
—  real  bunks,  clean  sheets,  good  food,  careful 
nurses.  It  was  some  different  from  the  crowded 
transport  that  had  taken  me  over  to  France. 


188    THE  LAST  TIME  OVER  THE  TOP 

There  were  a  lot  of  German  prisoners  aboard, 
wounded,  and  we  swapped  stories  with  them. 
It  was  really  a  lot  of  fun  comparing  notes, 
and  they  were  pretty  good  chaps  on  the  whole. 
They  were  as  glad  as  we  were  to  see  land. 
Their  troubles  were  over  for  the  duration  of 
the  war. 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  wonderful  morning 
when  I  looked  out  and  saw  again  the  coast  of 
England,  hazy  under  the  mists  of  dawn.  It 
looked  like  the  promised  land.  And  it  was. 
It  meant  freedom  again  from  battle,  murder, 
and  sudden  death,  from  trenches  and  stenches, 
rats,  cooties,  and  all  the  rest  that  goes  to  make 
up  the  worst  of  man-made  inventions,  war. 

It  was  Friday  the  thirteenth.  And  don't 
let  anybody  dare  say  that  date  is  unlucky. 
For  it  brought  me  back  to  the  best  thing  that 
can  gladden  the  eyes  of  a  broken  Tommy. 
Blighty  !     Blighty  ! !     Blighty  ! ! ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

Bits  of  Blighty 

O  LIGHTY  meant  life,  —  life  and  happi- 
ness  and  physical  comfort.  What  we 
had  left  behind  over  there  was  death  and 
mutilation  and  bodily  and  mental  suffering. 
Up  from  the  depths  of  hell  we  came  and  reached 
out  our  hands  with  pathetic  eagerness  to  the 
good  things  that  Blighty  had  for  us. 

I  never  saw  a  finer  sight  than  the  faces  of 
those  boys,  glowing  with  love,  as  they  strained 
their  eyes  for  the  first  sight  of  the  homeland. 
Those  in  the  bunks  below,  unable  to  move, 
begged  those  on  deck  to  come  down  at  the 
first  land  raise  and  tell  them  how  it  all  looked. 

A  lump  swelled  in  my  throat,  and  I  prayed 
that  I  might  never  go  back  to  the  trenches. 
And  I  prayed,  too,  that  the  brave  boys  still 
over  there  might  soon  be  out  of  it. 

We  steamed  into  the  harbor  of  Southampton 
early  in  the  afternoon.     Within  an  hour  all  of 


190  BITS  OF  BLIGHTY 

those  that  could  walk  had  gone  ashore.  As  we 
got  into  the  waiting  trains  the  civilian  popu- 
lace cheered.  I,  like  everybody  else  I  sup- 
pose, had  dreamed  often  of  coming  back  some- 
time as  a  hero  and  being  greeted  as  a  hero. 
But  the  cheering,  though  it  came  straight 
from  the  hearts  of  a  grateful  people,  seemed, 
after  all,  rather  hollow.  I  wanted  to  get 
somewhere  and  rest. 

It  seemed  good  to  look  out  of  the  windows 
and  see  the  signs  printed  in  EngHsh.  That 
made  it  all  seem  less  like  a  dream. 

I  was  taken  first  to  the  Clearing  Hospital 
at  Eastleigh.  As  we  got  off  the  train  there 
the  people  cheered  again,  and  among  the 
civilians  were  many  wounded  men  who  had 
just  recently  come  back.  They  knew  how  we 
felt. 

The  first  thing  at  the  hospital  was  a  real 
honest-to-God  bath.  In  a  tub.  With  hot 
water !  Heavens,  how  I  wallowed.  The  or- 
derly helped  me  and  had  to  drag  me  out.  I'd 
have  stayed  in  that  tub  all  night  if  he  would 
have  let  me. 

Out  of  the  tub  I  had  clean  things  straight 


COHPORAL    HOLMES   WITH    STAP^F   NURSK   AND   ANOTHER    PATIENT, 
AT  FUUIAM   MILITARY   HOSPITAL,    LONDON,    S.W. 


BITS  OF  BLIGHTY  191 

through,  with  a  neat  blue  uniform,  and  for 
once  was  free  of  the  cooties.  The  old  uniform, 
blood-stained  and  ragged,  went  to  the  baking 
and  disinfecting  plant. 

That  night  all  of  us  newly  arrived  men 
who  could  went  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  to  a  con- 
cert given  in  our  honor.  The  chaplain  came 
around  and  cheered  us  up  and  gave  us  good 
fags. 

Next  morning  I  went  around  to  the  M.  O. 
He  looked  my  arm  over  and  calmly  said  that 
it  would  have  to  come  off  as  gangrene  had  set 
in.  For  a  moment  I  wished  that  piece  of 
shrapnel  had  gone  through  my  head.  I  pic- 
tured myself  going  around  with  only  one  arm, 
and  the  prospect  didn't  look  good. 

However,  the  doctor  dressed  the  arm  with 
the  greatest  care  and  told  me  I  could  go  to  a 
London  hospital  as  I  had  asked,  for  I  wanted 
to  be  near  my  people  at  Southall.  These 
were  the  friends  I  had  made  before  leaving 
Blighty  and  who  had  sent  me  weekly  parcels 
and  letters. 

I  arrived  in  London  on  Tuesday  and  was 
taken  in  a  big  Red  Cross  motor  loaned  by  Sir 


152  BITS  OF  BLIGHTY 

Charles  Dickerson  to  the  Fulham  Hospital 
in  Hammersmith.  I  was  overjoyed,  as  the 
hospital  was  very  near  Southall,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Puttee  were  both  there  to  meet  me. 

The  Sister  in  charge  of  my  ward,  Miss 
Malin,  is  one  of  the  finest  women  I  have  met. 
I  owe  it  to  her  care  and  skill  that  I  still  have 
my  good  right  arm.  She  has  since  married 
and  the  lucky  man  has  one  of  the  best  of 
wives.  Miss  Malin  advised  me  right  at  the 
beginning  not  to  submit  to  an  amputation. 

My  next  few  weeks  were  pretty  awful.  I 
was  in  constant  pain,  and  after  the  old  arm 
began  to  come  around  under  Miss  Malin's 
treatment  one  of  the  doctors  discovered  that 
my  left  hand  was  queer.  It  had  been  some- 
what swollen,  but  not  really  bad.  The  doctor 
insisted  upon  an  X-ray  and  found  a  bit  of 
shrapnel  imbedded.  He  was  all  for  an  opera- 
tion. Operations  seemed  to  be  the  long  suit 
of  most  of  those  doctors.  I  imagine  they 
couldn't  resist  the  temptation  to  get  some 
practice  with  so  much  cheap  material  all 
about.  I  consented  this  time,  and  went  down 
for  the  pictures  on  Lord  Mayor's  Day.     Going 


BITS  OF  BLIGHTY  193 

to  the  pictures  is  Tommy's  expression  for 
undergoing  an  anesthetic. 

I  was  undgr  ether  two  hours  and  a  half, 
and  when  I  came  out  of  it  the  left  hand  vv'as 
all  to  the  bad  and  has  been  ever  since.  There 
followed  weeks  of  agonizing  massage  treat- 
ments. Between  treatments  though,  I  had  it 
cushy. 

My  friends  were  very  good  to  me,  and  several 
Americans  entertained  me  a  good  deal.  I  Lad 
a  permanent  walking-out  pass  good  from  nine 
in  the  morning  until  nine  at  night.  I  saw 
almost  every  show  in  the  city,  and  heard  a 
special  performance  of  the  Messiah  at  West- 
minster Abbey.  Also  I  enjoyed  a  good  deal 
of  restaurant  life. 

London  is  good  to  the  wounded  men.  There 
is  entertainment  for  all  of  them.  A  good 
many  of  these  slightly  wounded  complain  be- 
cause they  cannot  get  anything  to  drink,  but 
undoubtedly  it  is  the  best  thing  for  them.  It 
is  against  the  law  to  serve  men  in  the  blue 
uniform  of  the  wounded.  Men  in  khaki  can 
buy  all  the  liquor  they  want,  the  public  houses 
being  open  from  noon  to  two-thirty  and  from 


194  BITS  OF  BLIGHTY 

six  P.M.  to  nine-thirty.  Treating  is  not  al- 
lowed. Altogether  it  works  out  very  well  and 
there  is  little  drunkenness  among  the  soldiers. 

I  eventually  brought  up  in  a  Convalescent 
Hospital  in  Brentford,  Middlesex,  and  was 
there  for  three  weeks.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  I  was  placed  in  category  C  3. 

The  system  of  marking  the  men  in  England 
is  by  categories.  A,  B,  and  C.  A  1,  2,  and  3 
are  for  active  service.  A  4  is  for  the  under- 
aged.  B  categories  are  for  base  service,  and 
C  is  for  home  service.  C  3  was  for  clerical 
duty,  and  as  I  was  not  likely  to  become  eflB- 
cient  again  as  a  soldier,  it  looked  like  some 
kind  of  bookkeeping  for  me  for  the  duration 
of  the  war. 

Unless  one  is  all  shot  to  pieces,  literally 
with  something  gone,  it  is  hard  to  get  a  dis- 
charge from  the  British  army.  Back  in  the 
early  days  of  1915,  a  leg  off  was  about  the 
only  thing  that  would  produce  a  discharge. 

When  I  was  put  at  clerical  duty,  I  im- 
mediately began  to  furnish  trouble  for  the 
British  army,  not  intentionally,  of  course, 
but  quite  effectively.     The  first  thing  I  did 


i-<---  ■■  ■     ■ 


-JUAl 


BITS  OF  BLIGHTY  195 

was  to  drop  a  typewriter  and  smash  it.  My 
hands  had  spells  when  they  absolutely  refused 
to  work.  Usually  it  was  when  I  had  something 
breakable  in  them.  After  I  had  done  about 
two  hundred  dollars'  damage  indoors  they 
tried  me  out  as  bayonet  instructor.  I  im- 
mediately dropped  a  rifle  on  a  concrete  walk 
and  smashed  it.  They  wanted  me  to  pay  for 
it,  but  the  M.  O.  called  attention  to  the  fact 
that  I  shouldn't  have  been  put  at  the  work 
under  my  category. 

They  then  put  me  back  at  bookkeeping  at 
Command  Headquarters,  Salisbury,  but  I 
couldn't  figure  English  money  and  had  a 
bad  habit  of  fainting  and  falling  off  the  high 
stool.  To  cap  the  cHmax,  I  finally  fell  one 
day  and  knocked  down  the  stovepipe,  and 
nearly  set  the  office  afire.  The  M.  O.  then 
ordered  me  back  to  the  depot  at  Winchester 
and  recommended  me  for  discharge.  I  guess 
he  thought  it  would  be  the  cheapest  in  the 
long  run. 

The  adjutant  at  Winchester  didn't  seem 
any  too  pleased  to  see  me.  He  said  I  looked 
as  healthy  as  a  wolf,  which  I  did,  and  that 


1945  BITS  OF  BLIGHTY 

they  would  never  let  me  out  of  the  army.  He 
seemed  to  think  that  my  quite  normal  ap- 
pearance would  be  looked  upon  as  a  personal 
insult  by  the  medical  board.  I  said  that  I 
was  sorry  I  didn't  have  a  leg  or  two  gone,  but 
it  couldn't  be  helped. 

While  waiting  for  the  Board,  I  was  sent  to 
the  German  Prison  Camp  at  Winnal  Downs 
as  corporal  of  the  permanent  guard.  I  began 
to  fear  that  at  last  they  had  found  something 
that  I  could  do  without  damaging  anything, 
and  my  visions  of  the  U.  S.  A.  went  a-glimmer- 
ing.  I  was  with  the  Fritzies  for  over  a  week, 
and  they  certainly  have  it  soft  and  cushy. 

They  have  as  good  food  as  the  Tommies. 
They  are  paid  ninepence  a  day,  and  the  work 
they  do  is  a  joke.  They  are  well  housed  and 
kept  clean  and  have  their  own  canteens,  where 
they  can  buy  almost  anj^thing  in  the  way  of 
delicacies.  They  are  decently  treated  by  the 
English  soldiers,  who  even  buy  them  fags  out 
of  their  own  money.  The  nearest  thing  I 
ever  saw  to  humiliation  of  a  German  was  a 
few  good-natured  jokes  at  their  expense  by 
some  of  the  wits  in  the  guard.     The  English 


BITS  OF  BLIGHTY  197 

know  how  to  play  fair  with  an  enemy  when 
they  have  him  down. 

I  had  about  given  up  hope  of  ever  getting 
out  of  the  army  when  I  was  summoned  to 
appear  before  the  TravelHng  Medical  Board. 
You  can  wager  I  lost  no  time  in  appearing. 

The  board  looked  me  over  with  a  discourag- 
ing and  cynical  suspicion.  I  certainly  did 
look  as  rugged  as  a  navvy.  When  they  gave 
me  a  going  over,  they  found  that  my  heart 
was  out  of  place  and  that  my  left  hand  might 
never  limber  up  again.  They  voted  for  a 
discharge  in  jig  time.  I  had  all  I  could  do 
to  keep  from  howling  with  joy. 
f  It  was  some  weeks  before  the  final  formalities 
were  closed  up.  The  pension  board  passed  on 
my  case,  and  I  was  given  the  magnificent  sum 
of  sixteen  shillings  and  sixpence  a  week,  or 
$3.75.  I  spent  the  next  few  weeks  in  visiting 
my  friends  and,  eventually,  at  the  22nd  Head- 
quarters at  Bermondsey,  London,  S.  C,  re- 
ceived the  papers  that  once  more  made  me  a 
free  man. 

The  papers  read  in  part,  *'He  is  discharged 
in  consequence  of  paragraph  392,  Ejng's  Rules 


198  BITS  OF  BLIGHTY 

and  Regulations.  No  longer  fit  for  service." 
In  another  part  of  the  book  you  will  find  a 
reproduction  of  the  character  discharge  also 
given.  The  discharged  man  also  receives  a 
little  silver  badge  bearing  the  inscription, 
"  For  King  and  Empire,  Services  Rendered." 
I  think  that  I  value  this  badge  more  than  any- 
other  possession. 

Once  free,  I  lost  no  time  in  getting  my 
passport  into  shape  and  engaged  a  passage 
on  the  St.  Paul,  to  sail  on  the  second  of  June. 
Since  my  discharge  is  dated  the  twenty-eighth 
of  May,  you  can  see  that  I  didn't  waste  any 
time.  My  friends  at  Southall  thought  I  was 
doing  things  in  a  good  deal  of  a  hurry.  The 
fact  is,  I  was  fed  up  on  war.  I  had  had  a 
plenty.  And  I  was  going  to  make  my  get- 
away before  the  British  War  Office  changed 
its  mind  and  got  me  back  in  uniform.  Mrs. 
Puttee  and  her  eldest  son  saw  me  off  at  Euston 
Station.  Leaving  them  was  the  one  wrench, 
as  they  had  become  very  dear  to  me.  But  I 
had  to  go.  If  Blighty  had  looked  good,  the 
thought  of  the  U.  S.  A.  was  better. 

My  passage  was  uneventful.     No  submarines. 


BITS  OF  BLIGHTY  199 

no  bad  weather,  nothing  disagreeable.  On  the 
eighth  day  I  looked  out  through  a  welter  of  fog 
and  rain  to  the  place  where  the  Statue  of 
Liberty  should  have  been  waving  a  greeting 
across  New  York  harbor.  The  lady  wasn't 
visible,  but  I  knew  she  was  there.  And  even 
in  a  downpour  equal  to  anything  furnished  by 
the  choicest  of  Flanders  rainstorms,  little  old 
New  York  looked  better  than  anything  I  could 
imagine,  except  sober  and  staid  old  Boston. 

That  I  am  at  home,  safe  and  free  of  the 
horrors  of  war,  is  to  me  a  strange  thing.  I 
think  it  comes  into  the  experience  of  most  of 
the  men  who  have  been  over  there  and  who 
have  been  invalided  out  of  the  service.  Look- 
ing back  on  the  awfulness  of  the  trenches  and 
the  agonies  of  mind  and  body,  the  sacrifice 
seems  to  fade  into  insignificance  beside  the 
satisfaction  of  having  done  a  bit  in  the  great 
and  just  cause. 

Now  that  our  own  men  are  going  over,  I 
find  myself  with  a  very  deep  regret  that  I 
cannot  go  too.  I  can  only  wish  them  the 
best  of  luck  and  rest  in  confidence  that  every 
man  will  do  his  uttermost. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Suggestions  for  "Sammy" 

T  CANNOT  end  this  book  without  saying 
something  to  those  who  have  boys  over 
there  and,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  to  those 
boys  who  may  go  over  there. 

First  as  to  the  things  that  should  be  sent 
in  parcels ;  and  a  great  deal  of  consideration 
should  be  given  to  this.  You  must  be  very 
careful  not  to  send  things  that  will  load 
your  Sammy  down,  as  every  ounce  counts 
in  the  pack  when  he  is  hiking,  and  he  is  likely 
to  be  hiking  any  time  or  all  the  time. 

In  the  line  of  eatables  the  soldier  wants 
something  sweet.  Good  hard  cookies  are  all 
right.  I  wish  more  people  in  this  country 
knew  how  to  make  the  English  plum  pudding 
in  bags,  the  kind  that  will  keep  forever  and 
be  good  when  it  is  boiled.  Mainly,  though, 
chocolate  is  the  thing.     The  milk  kind  is  weU 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  "SAM^IY"    201 

enough,  but  it  is  apt  to  cause  overmucli  thirst. 
Personally  I  would  rather  have  the  plain 
chocolate,  —  the  water  variety. 

Chewing  gum  is  always  in  demand  and  is 
not  bulky  in  the  package.  Send  a  lot  of  it. 
Lime  and  lemon  tablets  in  the  summertime 
are  great  for  checking  thirst  on  the  march.  A 
few  of  them  won't  do  any  harm  in  any  parcel, 
summer  or  winter. 

Now  about  smoking  materials.  Unless  the 
man  to  whom  the  parcel  is  to  be  sent  is  defi- 
nitely known  to  be  prejudiced  against  ciga- 
rettes, don't  send  him  pipe  tobacco  or  a  pipe. 
There  are  smokers  who  hate  cigarettes  just  as 
there  are  some  people  who  think  that  the  little 
paper  roll  is  an  invention  of  the  devil.  If  any 
one  has  a  boy  over  there,  he  —  or  she  —  had 
better  overcome  any  possible  personal  feeling 
against  the  use  of  cigarettes  and  send  them 
in  preference  to  anything  else. 

From  my  own  experience  I  know  that  ciga- 
rettes are  the  most  important  thing  that  can 
be  sent  to  a  soldier.  When  I  went  out  there, 
I  was  a  pipe  smoker.  After  I  had  been  in  the 
trenches  a  week  I  quit  the  pipe  and  threw  it 


202    SUGGESTIONS  FOR  "SAMMY" 

away.  It  is  seldom  enough  that  one  has  the 
opportunity  to  enjoy  a  full  pipe.  It  is  very 
hard  to  get  lighted  when  the  matches  are  wet 
in  bad  weather,  which  is  nearly  always.  Be- 
sides which,  say  what  you  will,  a  pipe  does 
not  soothe  the  nerves  as  a  fag  does. 

Now  when  sending  the  cigarettes  out,  don't 
try  to  think  of  the  special  brand  that  Harold 
or  Percival  used  when  he  was  home.  Likely 
enough  his  name  has  changed,  and  instead  of 
being  Percy  or  Harold  he  is  now  Pigeye  or 
Sour-belly;  and  his  taste  in  the  weed  has 
changed  too.  He  won't  be  so  keen  on  his 
own  particular  brand  of  Turkish,  Just  send 
him  the  common  or  garden  Virginia  sort  at 
five  cents  the  package.  That  is  the  kind  that 
gives  most  comfort  to  the  outworn  Tommy  or 
Sammy. 

Don't  think  that  you  can  send  too  many. 
I  have  had  five  hundred  sent  to  me  in  a  week 
many  times  and  have  none  left  at  the  end. 
There  are  always  men  who  do  not  get  any 
parcels,  and  they  have  to  be  looked  out  for. 
Out  there  all  things  are  common  property,  and 
the  soldier  shares  his  last  with  his  less  for- 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  "SAMMY"    203 

tunate  comrade.  Subscribe  when  you  get  the 
chance  to  any  and  all  smoke  funds. 

Don't  listen  to  the  pestilential  fuddy-duds 
who  do  not  approve  of  tobacco,  particularly 
the  fussy-old-maids.  Personally,  when  I  hear 
any  of  these  conscientious  objectors  to  My 
Lady  Nicotine  air  their  opinions,  I  wish  that 
they  could  be  placed  in  the  trenches  for  a 
while.  They  would  soon  change  their  minds 
about  rum  issues  and  tobacco,  and  I'll  wager 
they  would  be  first  in  the  line  when  the  issues 
came  around. 

One  thing  that  many  people  forget  to  put 
in  the  soldier's  parcel,  or  don't  see  the  point 
of,  is  talcum  powder.  Razors  get  dull  very 
quickly,  and  the  face  gets  sore.  The  powder 
is  almost  a  necessity  when  one  is  shaving  in 
luke-warm  tea  and  laundry  soap,  with  a  safety 
razor  blade  that  wasn't  sharp  in  the  first  place. 
In  the  summer  on  the  march  men  sweat  and 
accumulate  all  the  dirt  there  is  in  the  world. 
There  are  forty  hitherto  unsuspected  places 
on  the  body  that  chafe  under  the  weight  of 
equipment.  Talc  helps.  In  the  matter  of 
sore  feet,  it  is  a  life  saver. 


204    SUGGESTIONS  FOR  "SAMMY" 

Soap,  —  don't  forget  that.  Always  some 
good,  pure,  plain  white  soap,  like  Ivory  or 
Castile ;  and  a  small  bath  towel  now  and 
then.  There  is  so  little  chance  to  wash  towels 
that  they  soon  get  unusable. 

In  the  way  of  wearing  apparel,  socks  are 
always  good.  But,  girlie,  make  'em  right. 
That  last  pair  sent  me  nearly  cost  me  a 
court  martial  by  my  getting  my  feet  into 
trench-foot  condition.  If  you  can't  leave  out 
the  seams,  wear  them  yourself  for  a  while,  and 
see  how  you  like  it. 

Sleeveless  sweaters  are  good  and  easy  to 
make,  I  am  told.  They  don't  last  long  at 
the  best,  so  should  not  be  elaborate.  Any 
garment  worn  close  to  the  body  gets  cooty 
in  a  few  weeks  and  has  to  be  ditched.  How- 
ever, keep  right  on  with  the  knitting,  with 
the  exception  of  the  socks.  If  you're  not 
an  expert  on  those,  better  buy  them.  You 
may  in  that  way  retain  the  affection  of  your 
sweetheart  over  there. 

Knitted  helmets  are  a  great  comfort.  I 
had  one  that  was  fine  not  only  to  wear  under 
the  tin  hat  but  to  sleep  in.     I  am  not  keen 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR   "Sx\MMY"    205 

on  wristlets  or  gloves.  Better  buy  the  gloves 
you  send  in  the  shops.  So  that's  the  knitted 
stuff,  —  helmets,  sweaters,  and  mufflers  and, 
for  the  expert,  socks. 

Be  very  moderate  in  the  matter  of  reading 
matter.  I  mean  by  that,  don't  send  a  lot  at 
a  time  or  any  very  bulky  stuff  at  all. 

If  it  is  possible  to  get  a  louse  pomade  called 
Harrison's  in  this  country,  send  it,  as  it  is  a 
cooty  killer.  So  far  as  I  know,  it  is  the  only 
thing  sold  that  will  do  the  cooty  in.  There's 
a  fortune  waiting  for  the  one  who  compounds 
a  louse  eradicator  that  will  kill  the  cooty  and 
not  irritate  or  nearly  kill  the  one  who  uses  it. 
I  shall  expect  a  royalty  from  the  successful 
chemist  who  produces  the  much  needed  com- 
pound. 

For  the  wealthier  people,  I  would  suggest 
that  good  things  to  send  are  silk  shirts  and 
drawers.  It  is  possible  to  get  the  cooties 
out  of  these  garments  much  easier  than  out 
of  the  thick  woollies.  There  are  many  other 
things  that  may  be  sent,  but  I  have  mentioned 
the  most  important.  The  main  thing  to  re- 
member is  not  to  run  to  bulk.    And  don't 


206    SUGGESTIONS  FOR   "SAMMY" 

forget  that  it  takes  a  long  time  for  stuff  to 
get  across. 

Don't  overlook  the  letters,  —  this  especially 
if  you  are  a  mother,  wife,  or  sweetheart.  It 
is  an  easy  thing  to  forget.  You  mustn't.  Out 
there  life  is  chiefly  squalor,  filth,  and  stench. 
The  boy  gets  disgusted  and  lonesome  and 
homesick,  even  though  he  may  write  to  the 
contrary.  Write  to  him  at  least  three  times 
a  week.  Always  write  cheerfully,  even  al- 
though something  may  have  happened  that 
has  plunged  you  into  the  depths  of  despair. 
If  it  is  necessary  to  cover  up  something  that 
would  cause  a  soldier  worry,  cover  it  up. 
Even  lie  to  him.  It  will  be  justified.  Keep 
in  mind  the  now  famous  war  song,  "Pack  up 
your  troubles  in  your  old  kit  bag  and  smile, 
smile,  smile."  Keep  your  own  packed  up 
and  don't  send  any  over  there  for  some  soldier 
to  worry  over. 

Just  a  few  words  to  the  men  themselves  who 
may  go.  Don't  take  elaborate  shaving  tackle, 
just  brush,  razor,  soap,  and  a  small  mirror. 
Most  of  the  time  you  won't  need  the  mirror. 
You'll  use  the  periscope  mirror  in  the  trenches. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  "SAMMY"    207 

Don't  load  up  on  books  and  unnecessary  cloth- 
ing. Impress  it  upon  your  relatives  that  your 
stuff,  tobacco  and  sweets,  is  to  come  along  in 
small  parcels  and  often  and  regularly.  Let 
all  your  friends  and  relatives  know  your  ad- 
dress and  ask  them  to  write  often.  Don't 
hesitate  to  tell  them  all  that  a  parcel  now  and 
again  will  be  acceptable.  Have  more  than 
one  source  of  supply  if  possible. 

When  you  get  out  there,  hunt  up  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  huts.  You  will  find  good  cheer, 
warmth,  music,  and  above  all  a  place  to  do 
your  writing.  Write  home  often.  Your  people 
are  concerned  about  you  all  the  time.  Write 
at  least  once  a  week  to  the  one  nearest  and 
dearest  to  you.  I  used  to  average  ten  letters 
a  week  to  friends  in  Blighty  and  back  here, 
and  that  was  a  lot  more  than  I  was  allowed. 
I  found  a  way.  Most  of  you  won't  be  able  to 
go  over  your  allowance.     But  do  go  the  limit. 

Over  there  you  will  find  a  lot  of  attractive 
girls  and  women.  Most  any  girl  is  attractive 
when  you  are  just  out  of  the  misery  of  the 
trenches.  Be  careful  of  them.  Remember 
the  country  has  been  full  of  soldiers  for  three 


208    SUGGESTIONS  FOR   ''SAMMY" 

years.  Don't  make  love  too  easily.  One  of 
the  singers  in  the  Divisional  Follies  recently 
revived  the  once  popular  music-hall  song,  "If 
You  Can't  Be  Good  Be  Careful."  It  should 
appeal  to  the  soldier  as  much  as  "Smile,  smile, 
smile",  and  is  equally  good  advice.  For  the 
sake  of  those  at  home  and  for  the  sake  of  your 
own  peace  of  mind  come  back  from  overseas 
clean. 

After  all  it  is  possible  to  no  more  than  give 
hints  to  the  boys  who  are  going.  All  of  you 
will  have  to  learn  by  experience.  My  parting 
word  to  you  all  is  just,  "The  best  of  luck." 


GLOSSARY  OF  ARMY  SLANG 

All  around  traverse  —  A  machine  gun  placed  on  a  swivel 
to  turn  in  any  direction. 

Ammo  —  Ammunition.  Usually  for  rifles,  though  occa- 
sionally used  to  indicate  that  for  artillery. 

Argue  the  toss  —  Argue  the  point. 

Back  of  the  line  —  Anywhere  to  the  rear  and  out  of  the 
danger  zone. 

Barbed  wire  —  Ordinary  barbed  wire  used  for  entangle- 
ments. A  thicker  and  heavier  military  wire  is  some- 
times used. 

Barrage  —  Shells  dropped  simultaneously  and  in  a  row 
so  as  to  form  a  curtain  of  fire.  Literal  translation 
"  a  barrier." 

Bashed  —  Smashed. 

Big  boys  —  Big  guns  or  the  shells  they  send  over. 

Big  push  —  The  battles  of  the  Somme. 

Billets  —  The  quarters  of  the  soldier  when  back  of  the 
line.     Any  place  from  a  pigpen  to  a  palace. 

Bleeder  or  Blighter  —  Cockney  slang  for  fellow.  Roughly 
corresponding  to  American  "  guy." 

Blighty  —  England.  East  Indian  derivation.  The  para- 
dise looked  forward  to  by  all  good  soldiers,  —  and 
all  bad  ones  too. 

Blighty  one  —  A  wound  that  will  take  the  soldier  to 
Blighty. 


210    GLOSSARY  OF  ARMY  SLANG 

Bloody  —  The  universal  Cockney  adjective.  It  is  vaguely 
supposed  to  be  highly  obscene,  though  just  why 
nobody  seems  to  know. 

Blooming  —  A  meaningless  and  greatly  used  adjective. 
Applied  to  anything  and  everything. 

Bomb  —  A  hand  grenade. 

Bully  beef  —  Corned  beef,  high  grade  and  good  of  the 
kind,  if  you  like  the  kind.  It  sets  hard  on  the 
chest. 

Carry  on  —  To  go  ahead  with  the  matter  in  hand. 

Char  —  Tea.     East  Indian  derivation. 

Chat  —  Officers'  term  for  cootie ;  supposed  to  be  more 
delicate. 

Click  —  Variously  used.  To  die.  To  be  killed.  To 
kill.  To  draw  some  disagreeable  job,  as  :  I  clicked  a 
burial  fatigue. 

Communication  trench  —  A  trench  leading  up  to  the 
front  trench. 

Consolidate  —  To  turn  around  and  prepare  for  occupa- 
tion a  captured  trench. 

Cootie  —  The  common,  —  the  too  common,  —  body  louse. 
Everybody  has  'em. 

Crater  —  A  round  pit  made  by  an  underground  explosion 
or  by  a  shell. 

Cushy  —  Easy.     Soft. 

Dixie  —  An  oblong  iron  pot  or  box  fitting  into  a  field 
kitchen.  Used  for  cooking  anything  and  every- 
thing.    Nobody  seems  to  know  why  it  is  so  called. 

Doggo  —  Still.     Quiet.     East  Indian  derivation. 

Doing  in  —  Killing. 

Doss  —  Sleep. 


GLOSSARY  OF  ARMY  SLANG    211 

Duck  walk  —  A  slatted  wooden  walk  in  soft  ground. 

Dud  —  An  unexploded  shell.  A  dangerous  thing  to  fool 
with. 

Dug-out  —  A  hole  more  or  less  deep  in  the  side  of  a 
trench  where  soldiers  are  supposed  to  rest. 

Dump  —  A  place  where  supplies  are  left  for  distribution. 

Entrenching  tool  —  A  sort  of  small  shovel  for  quick  dig- 
ging.   Carried  as  part  of  equipment. 

Estaminet  —  A  French  saloon  or  cafe. 

Fag  —  A  cigarette. 

Fatigue  —  Any  kind  of  work  except  manning  the  trenches. 

Fed  up  —  Tommy's  way  of  saying  "  too  much  is  enough." 

Firing  step  —  A  narrow  ledge  running  along  the  parapet 
on  which  a  soldier  stands  to  look  over  the  top. 

Flare  —  A  star  light  sent  up  from  a  pistol  to  light  up  out 
in  front. 

Fritz  —  An  affectionate  term  for  our  friend  the  enemy. 

Funk  hole  —  A  dug-out. 

Gas  —  Any  poisonous  gas  sent  across  when  the  wind  is 
right.  Used  by  both  sides.  Invented  by  the 
Germans. 

Goggles  —  A  piece  of  equipment  similar  to  that  used  by 
motorists,  supposed  to  keep  off  tear  gas.  The  rims 
are  backed  with  strips  of  sponge  which  Tommy  tears 
off  and  throws  the  goggle  frame  away. 

Go  west  —  To  die. 

Grouse  —  Complain.     Growl.     Kick. 

Hun  —  A  German. 

Identification  disc  —  A  fiber  tablet  bearing  the  soldier's 
name,  regiment,  and  rank.  Worn  around  the  neck 
on  a  string. 


212    GLOSSARY  OF  ARMY  SLANG 

Iron  rations  —  About  two  pounds  of  nonperishable  rations 

to  be  used  in  an  emergency. 
Knuckle   knife  —  A   short   dagger  with  a  studded   hilt. 

Invented  by  the  Germans. 
Lance  Corporal  —  The  lowest  grade  of  non-commissioned 

officer. 
Lewis  gun  -  -  A  very  light  machine  gun  invented  by  one 

Lewis,  an  officer  in  the  American  army. 
Light  railway  —  A  very  narrow-gauge  railway  on  which 

are  pushed  little  hand  cars. 
Listening  post  —  One  or  more  men  go  out  in  front,  at 

night,  of  course,  and  listen  for  movements  by  the 

enemy. 
Maconochie  —  A  scientifically  compounded  and  well-bal- 
ancer^ ration,  so  the  authorities  say.     It  looks,  smells, 

and  t  stes  like  rancid  lard. 
M.   O.  —  Medical   Officer.     A   foxy  cove  who  can't  be 

fooled  with  faked  symptoms. 
Mess  tin  —  A  combination  teapot,  fry  pan,  and  plate. 
Military  cross  —  An  officer's  decoration  for  bravery. 
Military   medal  —  A    decoration    for    bravery   given    to 

enlisted  men. 
Mills  —  The  most  commonly  used  hand  grenade. 
Minnies  —  German  trench  mortar  projectiles. 
Napper  —  The  head. 
Night  'ops  —  A  much  hated  practice  manoeuvre  done  at 

night. 
No  Man's  Land  —  The  area  between  the  trenches. 
On  your  own  —  At  liberty.     Your  time  is  your  own. 
Out  or  over  there  —  Somewhere  in  France. 
Parados  —  The  back  wall  of  a  trench. 


GLOSSARY  OF  ARMY  SLANG    213 

Parapet  —  The  front  wall  of  a  trench. 

Patrol  —  One  or  more  men  who  go  out  in  front  and  prowl 

in  the  dark,  seeking  information  of  the  enemy. 
Periscope  —  A   boxlike   arrangement    with    two    mirrors 

for  looking  over  the  top  without  exposing  the  napper. 
Persuader  —  A  short  club  with  a  nail-studdeH  head. 
Pip  squeak  —  A  German  shell  which  makei  that  kind  of 

noise  when  it  comes  over. 
Push  up  the  daisies  —  To  be  killed  and  buried. 
Ration  party  —  A  party  of  men  which  goes  to  the  rear  and 

brings  up  rations  for  the  front  line. 
Rest  —  Relief  from  trench  service.     Mostly   one  works 

constantly  when  "  resting." 
Ruddy  —  Same  as  bloody,  but  not  quite  so  bad. 
Sandbag  —  A  bag  which  is  filled  with  mud  and  used  for 

building  the  parapet. 
Sentry  go  —  Time  on  guard  in  the  front  trench,  or  at  rest 

at  headquarters. 
Shell  hole  —  A  pit  made  by  the  explosion  of  a  shell. 
Souvenir  —  Any  kind  of  junk  picked  up  for  keepsakes. 

Also  used  as  a  begging  word  by  the  French  children. 
Stand  to  —  Order   for  all   men   to    stand   ready   in   the 

trench  in  event  of  a  surprise  attack,  usually  at  sun- 
down and  sunrise. 
Stand  down  —  Countermanding  "  stand  to." 
Stokes  —  A  bomb  weighing  about  eleven  pounds  usually 

thrown  from  a  mortar,  but  sometimes  used  by  hand. 
Strafing  —  One  of   the  few  words  Tommy  has  borrowed 

from  Fritz.     To  punish. 
Suicide  club  —  The  battalion  bombers. 
Tin  hat  —  Steel  helmet. 


214     GLOSSARY  OF   ARMY  SLANG 

Wave  —  A  line  of  men  going  over  the  top. 

Whacked  —  Exhausted.     Played  out. 

Whiz -bang  —  A  German  shell  that  makes  that  sort  of 
noise. 

Wind  up  or  windy  —  Nervous.  Jumpy.  Temporary  in- 
voluntary fear. 

Wooden  cross  —  The  small  wooden  cross  placed  over  a 
soldier's  grave. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


Mi 

MJ  ] 


ai9dd. 


n 


m 


wm 


!lttt|in' 


WB 


